


Elements of Hope

by Fuhadeza



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Continuation, F/F, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuhadeza/pseuds/Fuhadeza
Summary: Scorpia’s eyes were on Adora. She’d explained Beast Island, of course, but only Adora had grown up with the stories, only Adora could really understand what it meant, and that made her Scorpia’s best chance. Were those creases of concern around her eyes, or of scepticism?Catra is gone. Scorpia looks for help in unlikely places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all right, one time I said I wouldn't do it, but then I had a few good ideas and wrote a couple scenes, so I guess I'm gonna do it! this is my version of the Beast Island arc. it's a bit different from the other takes on this I've read, so hopefully it'll be of interest :D in particular I'm planning to focus as much on Scorpia's side of the story as Catra's.
> 
> the plan is to finish before season three, which sounds easy, but all of my free time is gonna evaporate in about two weeks' time, so, we'll see. wish me luck :p

The plan had seemed more sound when she’d formed it, back in the Fright Zone, days away from Bright Moon and the semi-circle of princesses poking holes in her confidence.

‘So, er, you see,’ Scorpia said once her explanation had run its course. ‘There’s no one else. I need your help.’ She tried to smile. ‘Please?’

There was an open window halfway up the wall of the audience chamber. Scorpia thought she could hear laughter wafting in from the courtyard outside.

‘Shadow Weaver is free.’

It was Angella who broke the silence, which made sense, Scorpia supposed, being the only person there who was a queen and not a princess. The words themselves made less sense. That hadn’t struck Scorpia as the most important part of what she’d told them. ‘Yes?’

‘And Catra helped her escape.’

‘I wouldn’t say _helped_ , necessarily, it’s more that she, uh, _caused_ the escape. Unintentionally.’

‘And then she came _here_ ,’ Glimmer added, casting a sideways glance at Adora. ‘Do you have any idea how much trouble she caused?’

‘Oh!’ Scorpia was Bright Moon’s guest. They’d accepted her truce. They owed her nothing. She didn’t say anything, repeating those three facts in her mind, until the urge to yell at them to _stop changing the subject_ passed. ‘I didn’t know that, actually, now that you mention it, but maybe we could focus on how Catra is on _Beast Island_ …’

Scorpia’s eyes were on Adora. She’d explained Beast Island, of course, but only Adora had grown up with the stories, only Adora could really understand what it meant, and that made her Scorpia’s best chance. Were those creases of concern around her eyes, or of scepticism?

‘Shadow Weaver killed my husband,’ Angella said.

Scorpia cleared her throat. Was she supposed to respond to that? What could she possibly say? _I’m sorry, but that was a long time ago, maybe we can focus on the present?_

‘I don’t buy it,’ Glimmer put in, saving Scorpia the trouble. ‘Catra is cunning. If she let Shadow Weaver go, she must have had a reason. I’m not going to let Catra deceive me again. Not with such an obvious trap.’

‘That’s right! Catra came into _my_ home and took advantage of _my_ hospitality! I’ll never forgive her for that.’

That came from Frosta, and it made Scorpia’s head hurt to consider that a twelve-year-old had a say in Catra’s fate. Were kids her age supposed to know words like “hospitality”?

‘In fact, I say we go further than that! Let’s hold Scorpia hostage and see how Catra likes walking into a trap!’

‘Now, wait a minute,’ Scorpia began, just as Glimmer said ‘ _Frosta,_ we’ve talked about this,’ and over both of them Frosta’s ‘That’s not _fair_ , _you_ got to capture _Catra_ —'

‘ _Enough_.’ Angella raised two slender fingers to her temple. ‘We are agreed that we cannot trust Scorpia, but that does not mean we can ignore the terms of a truce. We are not the Horde. I hope you all remember that.’

Frosta made as if to object. Between the combined stares of the Queen and Princess of Bright Moon, even she wilted. ‘Fine.’

‘Now,’ Angella said, turning back to Scorpia, ‘Netossa will escort you to—’

At which point Scorpia snapped. What was the point in being polite when they’d already rejected her request? ‘You’re not the Horde,’ she said, loudly. ‘Really? Because I left the Horde to save someone I care about. I thought you would understand. Isn’t that your thing? Or are you happy to pat yourselves on the back and talk about how much better you are, but when it comes to actually _doing_ something… Maybe you only accept Horde defectors who come with magic swords?’

‘Scorpia—’ It was the first word Adora had spoken the entire meeting.

‘And you! Don’t get me started on you! You of all people should know how important this is! She was your _best friend_ , Adora. She would have done _anything_ for you. Does that really mean so little?’ Anger and embarrassment descended on Scorpia like a blanket: anger because she really had thought they might help, embarrassment that she had lost her temper. A bridge burnt just as well whether the flames were true or not. ‘Sorry,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll show myself out.’

They did not trust her to show herself out. Scorpia walked through the halls and courtyards of Bright Moon with her head held high, but she did not do it alone. The atmosphere grew oppressive. She felt like a condemned woman. The princesses had not lifted a finger against her, true, but she had no delusions about the fate that awaited her if she attempted to rescue Catra and failed.

‘I can take it from here,’ she said once they were out of the castle proper, the ever-present line of the Whispering Woods rising in the distance like a second wall. Netossa looked like she might argue. Instead she sighed, shrugged, and left, all without saying a word.

She was two hours finding her campsite. She chose it carefully. Close enough to reach before dark, not too close to Bright Moon, not so far from the tree-line that she’d risk getting lost in the Whispering Woods. The light began to fade as she pitched her tent, still awkward but far more adept than she’d been at the beginning, leaving the Fright Zone—it was an adjustment, to be sure, but she was learning to make do in the blindspots technology had left her with. At least some of it had been covered in training.

Only one moon was left in the sky by the time she was done. The tent was up, her fire crackled merrily in its small pit, and she’d dragged a downed log close enough to serve as a bench. All that was missing was companionship. That thought made her bitter all over again.

‘Excellent, Scorpia. Great job. What were you expecting? Applause? “Oh, thank you, Scorpia, for showing us the error of our ways!” No. They don’t care about Catra. They were never going to help, and that’s okay! All she needs is you. You can do this.’

‘Do you usually talk to yourself?’

Scorpia was on her feet in an instant. The fire was between her and the other person, and she couldn’t quite make out—‘Oh. It’s you.’

Adora stepped into the ring of firelight. Her sword was strapped to her back, but her hands were half-raised: peace, not surrender. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Now you wanna talk? Not back there with all your friends, when it might have made a difference?’

Adora winced. ‘I don’t think anything I said would have helped.’

‘You could have at least _tried_ —’

‘Look, I get it, okay? I’m sorry.’ She didn’t sound sorry. ‘I’m a coward, or whatever you want me to say. Is that better? Can we talk?’

Scorpia couldn’t claim to know Adora well. Nor had she been able to glean much from Entrapta, who had at least spent some time with her. (Catra could have told her everything she wanted to know about Adora. Scorpia had no doubt about that. Instead she had told her nothing—or nothing genuine, at the very least.) Still: what she _did_ know made her think Adora was the type to make a rousing speech in front of enemies and allies alike.

Not the type to skulk around strangers’ campfires in the night.

‘They don’t know you’re here, do they?’

Apparently past waiting for an invitation, Adora unbuckled her sword, laid it at her feet, and sat down. ‘I left a note. Did you really leave the Horde?’

A note? Scorpia frowned. ‘Yes. Why do you think I’m out here instead of on a skiff, heading back to the Fright Zone?’

‘You’d say that, though, wouldn’t you?’

‘You left,’ Scorpia snapped. ‘Is it that hard to believe someone else would too?’

‘That’s not what I meant! You seem nice enough. I know you care about Catra. I’ve seen it. What I don’t understand is—why wait so long?’

‘I could never leave her,’ Scorpia said. That was a deliberate jab, and it had the intended effect. Adora drew in on herself, almost imperceptibly, but instead of satisfaction Scorpia felt a flash of guilt. She did her best to ignore it. It was nothing but the truth. ‘Why did _you_ wait so long?’

‘Don’t,’ Adora whispered.

To her own surprise, Scorpia didn’t.

There was another long silence. Scorpia fed a log to the fire. It made her uncomfortable, as if the trees around her knew what she was doing; but if the Whispering Woods wished to take their revenge, they were apparently content to bide their time.

‘Where’d you learn to make a fire?’

It sounded like an olive branch. Scorpia looked up. ‘Force captain training.’ She didn’t need to add, _not that you’d know._

‘Oh.’

‘Which Catra never attended. She’d be hopeless out in the wild. On her own.’

‘Of course she didn’t,’ Adora said, and for a split second Scorpia thought she was going to smile. Then she blinked, as if coming back to herself, as if remembering _on her own_ wasn’t a hypothetical.

Scorpia fancied herself a decent judge of character, but even a mediocre one would have been able to spot the conflict in Adora. It wasn’t hard to guess what was on her mind. Scorpia had gone through the same process: the rhetoric of friend-or-foe weighed against something deeper, something that didn’t care for dichotomies. They were both of them neither friend nor foe, and that made for difficult conversation.

Still: time was a factor. Scorpia sighed and cut through the knot between them. ‘I’ll save you the trouble of asking. You can come with me if you want.’

‘How did you—’

‘You wouldn’t have left a note if you thought you’d be going back tonight.’

‘I left it just in case. I can still go back and get rid of it.’

‘Will you?’

Adora crossed and uncrossed her legs. ‘Is she really on Beast Island?’

‘Yes.’ At Adora’s continued hesitance, she added, not unkindly, ‘What are you having trouble with? The idea that I’m telling the truth or the fact you want to help her?’

Adora’s voice was barely audible over the crackle of the fire. ‘Does it matter?’

‘It might matter later.’

‘The thing is...’ Adora’s mouth worked. ‘I don’t know.’

Scorpia brought her claws together, the way she would to emphasise a point, but the _click_ of them meeting made Adora jump. That was something to remember: Adora didn’t know her, either. ‘Alrighty then,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a long day. I’m going to bed. Keep an eye on the fire. If you’re still here in the morning, I'll assume you're coming along.’

‘What? But—what am I supposed to do? I thought you’d—’

‘Have your answers for you? Ha! Sleep, don’t sleep. Figure things out or don’t. It’s all the same to me.’ Scorpia reached for her bedroll. ‘Tomorrow I’m setting off to find Catra. That’s what matters.’ She fixed Adora with what she hoped was a firm stare. ‘That’s _all_ that matters.’

*

They were half a dozen in the prison transport to begin with.

Catra wondered whether these were to be her companions in exile. Had she still held the capacity to care, it would have been a grim sign. She was the sole Horde officer; the others were an assortment of humans and satyrs, bedraggled but not so weary as to deny her the poisonous stares that were her legacy. She had craved that fear. It had been a symbol of who she’d made herself. Now it was like to get her killed the moment the guards’ attention was split one too many ways.

Not that it mattered. Beast Island was the end. Whether the people who shared that end loved her or hated her made little difference.

It was not to be. Their numbers dwindled with the days until, some ten days after departing the Fright Zone, the transport ejected its penultimate passenger and Catra was left alone. She did not know it then, but it would be another four days to their destination. Why so slow, she might have asked, when the Horde could whisk their soldiers from one battlefield to another in a matter of hours?

Because prisoners did not matter. Would Hordak even notice if the transport never returned, if it followed identical corrugated roads until there was no freedom left behind, no captivity ahead, nothing but the endless solitude of transition?

Those days were the slowest days. The guards did not speak to her. They fed her through a hatch in the metal bulkhead separating the drivers from their prisoner. Time blurred. Her thoughts supplied poison in plenty to fill the gap left by her co-passengers.

How long had she lasted as Hordak’s right hand? Already the weeks eluded her. Why did it matter how long it was exactly, when any answer was the tiniest fraction of the decades Shadow Weaver had spent in the role? (She had excess of hatred, of anger, but the worst thing she felt towards Shadow Weaver was neither of those. The worst thing was admiration.)

Without warning the transport stopped. Sounds filtered in, the crunch of a guard jumping to the ground followed by the thud of the door being unbolted. Catra’s heart beat faster. Her fur stood up on the back of her neck and she pressed herself into the far corner. Four days had seemed endless. Now that they were gone, now that she had reached the end, they were the shortest span imaginable.

The guards pulled her from her corner, forced her out into bright moonlight. She felt disembodied, as if she were watching events that had already transpired, that she could point to and say, ah, see, that’s where I went wrong, if only I had—what? If only she had _what_? What exit was there?

The end of the road was a small outpost on the coast, three buildings and a dock where a barge bobbed in the waves. There was no wall. Beast Island was the sort of prison that needed no wall, only a gateway, and this facility was it. (Between the buildings she caught glimpses of the island itself, distant and silent, separated from the mainland by dark, choppy water. It looked like any other island, she told herself. It looked normal.)

In her youth, the person waiting for her in the command building would have inspired nearly as much fear as the island. That, at least, had changed. She had been weak. Now she was—otherwise.

‘You’re _no one_ now,’ Octavia hissed. ‘You won’t last a year on Beast Island.’

‘I rose higher than you ever will.’ Catra’s voice was raspy with disuse. She made herself smile. ‘Better to be someone and fall than to be a glorified prison guard your entire life.’

Octavia hit her. Catra let her head whip around with the force of the blow, but she tasted blood regardless. It didn’t matter. She’d seen Octavia flinch. An empty victory, but empty victories suited her, nowadays. Empty victories were all she had left.

‘Get the shackles on her,’ Octavia spat, ‘and get her out of my sight.’

The shackles were heavy things of smooth metal that sealed around her ankles without so much as a seam. There was no chain and nothing around her wrists, and for a moment she wondered whether the security of Beast Island was really as tight as it was made out to be. Outside again, she understood. She looked at the sea and imagined swimming with the weights around her legs, pulling her down with every stroke, sapping her energy.

Beast Island did not need walls. Beast Island did not need chains.

Her scalp itched as they searched her, brief and more perfunctory than she’d feared. Her legs were already protesting the extra weight as she was led onto the barge. Even so she formed her features into a smile. ‘I thought you wanted me out of your sight. What’s wrong, Octavia? You’re not _scared_ of me, are you? Worried I’ll escape on day one?’

Octavia turned away. Catra made sure her laugh was loud enough for the guards hanging back on the dock.

They made the crossing in silence. It was not so far, with the faint thrum of the ship’s engine beneath her. Catra had no doubt it would be farther with the chill of the ocean around her.

She disembarked willingly on the other end. The beach was sand, and for a moment she grimaced. Sand felt nice enough between her toes, but it was _hell_ on her fur, and—it didn’t matter.

Octavia followed her down. ‘I almost wish you’d tried something,’ she said. ‘Give me an excuse to—’

Catra lunged for her mid-sentence. Her claws got within an inch of Octavia’s throat before her body failed her and she collapsed onto the sand, writhing. For a few confused seconds she couldn’t make sense of what had happened—then she saw the remote in Octavia’s hand, registered the waves of pain setting her nerves alight, tracked them back to their source around her ankles.

Octavia, for her part, looked less satisfied than Catra expected. There was fear on her face, and uncertainty, and if Catra was still in too much pain to put two and two together, the facts were there, ready and waiting.

‘You’re _no-one_.’

The sound of the ship’s engine was a long time fading. Catra lay in the sand, breathing heavily, the artificial pain of her shackles replaced by simple, old-fashioned muscle cramps. She curled up on herself, and waited, and thought.

Octavia had given her much to think about, after all. _You won’t survive a year_. Beast Island was a death sentence—everyone in the Horde knew it. A year? A year was far more than Catra had been expecting. Then there were the shackles. Catra wasn’t supposed to know they could incapacitate her like that, she was sure of it. That was why Octavia had looked so uncertain. She’d shown her hand, shown Catra exactly what lay between her and freedom.

And then, of course, there was the discomfort that had followed her all the way from the Fright Zone, like someone pulling incessantly at her hair. Catra ran her hand through her mane, felt what was hidden there, what she’d pinned so close to her scalp it was utterly invisible.

These were the elements of hope, but Catra had been a long time without hope. She wasn’t at all sure she knew what to do with it. She wasn’t sure she knew anything at all anymore, and the sand was soft and warm beneath her, and how much easier to put aside something so duplicitous as hope, and simply lie there and let the wind cover her inch by inch. There would be time for hope in the morning, perhaps, or the day after.

That was not reality. Reality was the creak of the trees, the sound of voices, the footsteps coming down the beach. Reality was the ache deep in her body that surrendered to nothing but sleep.

Catra closed her eyes. The pain went numb. The voices faded. She slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Catra woke expecting hell and found banality.

She was in a house—no, that wasn’t quite right. She was in a hut. The walls were the flimsy prefab the Horde used for their field bases, the cot she lay in more of the same. She could feel the slats through the thin mattress, imprinting on her back in a pattern identical to a dozen other beds she’d slept in over the years.

For a moment she thought she was back in the Fright Zone. Safe.

The rest of the furnishings put the lie to that. There was a table of rough-hewn wood, matched with a stool that was nothing more than a segment of a moderately broad tree, bark still attached and peeling along one side. Next to the bed a worn mat of woven—grass? leaves?—spoke to the everyday tread of feet.

Catra knew, in a vague sort of way, that outside the Fright Zone wood, not metal, was the most commonly used construction material. She had never given the difference much thought. Now it stared at her from a knot in the wood of the table, a flaw that metal would never have borne. She could see how it had been built. She could see how rope held individual pieces of wood together. It would be easy to destroy.

In the Fright Zone, things simply _were._ It was discomforting to think of them now as _made_.

Next to the table stood another bed, identical to the first, as if they had been stamped from the same mould. She sat up. The wall behind her gave an inch before holding, like it always did. Identical meant familiar, but familiar did not mean she could ignore the table, the stool, the wrong. Despite the stifling air, her fur stood on end.

Catra’s ears twitched. Her gaze snapped to the door a moment before it opened.

The man in the doorway was not particularly tall. That was all she could make out with bright daylight behind him.

‘Hello,’ he said, as if he had been expecting to find her awake and watching him. ‘Welcome to Beast Island.’

Catra said nothing. The man closed the door behind him and sat on the other bed. He looked like he sounded: black hair shot through with grey, face lined with neither happiness nor sadness. He looked— _rich_ was the word that occurred to her, rich the way an engine vibrating through every layer of your body was rich. He was, in short, entirely unlike anyone she’d ever seen before. In the Horde one was young or else one hid one’s face, as if age brought with it only shame. That had made sense to her. It was impossible to survive in the Horde without committing shameful acts.

Once she had imagined she might change that. Now she wondered whether she ought to cover her face, too.

‘What’s your name?’

Catra weighed the meaning of answering. If this was a fellow prisoner, she owed him nothing; if he was her jailer, he already knew her name, and she owed him even less. ‘What’s yours?’ she countered, the fur on her arms puffing out in belligerence.

The man did not react. Perhaps he did not know how to read her body language. ‘I am called Micah.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To greet you.’

‘You’ve done that. Get out.’

Micah inclined his head. ‘All right.’

‘I—really?’

‘Yes.’ He stood up. ‘But you have questions. The answers are outside.’

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

‘That’s a question.’ Micah opened the door, rendering himself a silhouette once more. ‘Ask for me. Someone will point you in the right direction.’

‘Wait!’ The silhouette tilted its head, listening. Catra tried to think of something to say. ‘I’m—I’m hungry.’

‘I will bring you something to eat.’

Catra had spent her entire life lashing out at people. She’d lashed out at Shadow Weaver and been dismissed as an unruly child; she’d lashed out at Adora and at Scorpia, been met with the former’s patience and the latter’s relentless optimism. Catra had spent her entire life lashing out, trying to force people away, and she’d never succeeded.

Until the moment Micah closed the door behind him.

It was like uncovering your ears and hearing a voice clearly for the first time. It was like discovering a strength you did not know you had. She had spoken and he had heeded her.

Catra thought about what that meant. By the time Micah returned, an hour later, the blanket on her bed, threadbare to begin with, had all but disintegrated before the frustrations of her claws.

He sat a tray of food down on the table, all of it fresh, not a ration cube in sight. Catra recognised none of it. ‘You want my name before I can eat.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘That’s how the world works.’

‘Then the world has changed mightily since I last saw it, if people trade names for food.’

It took Catra several seconds to realise he was making a joke. ‘Then what do you _want_?’

‘Nothing. You said you were hungry, so I brought you some food.’ Micah ran a hand through his beard. ‘I will come back for the tray later. If you wish, you may return it to the kitchen yourself. Follow your nose.’

He turned to leave.

‘Wait!’

‘Yes?’ There might have been a smile on his face. It was difficult to tell; Catra was not used to reading expressions hidden behind facial hair.

‘Before—why did you leave?’

‘Because you asked me too.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Catra snapped. ‘Why did you—why did you _listen?_ ’

‘Ah. That is a better question.’ Micah tilted his head to one side. ‘If I were your friend, I might disregard the request to leave. Perhaps I know you well enough to know that you say one thing but mean another. But with strangers I think it is better to respect their desires, don’t you? At least until one has a reason to do otherwise.’

Catra stared at him. She wanted to ask, _Who_ are _you?_ ‘Why do you talk like that?’

She said it sneeringly, dismissively, but if he took offense he did so privately. ‘Long decades.’

‘Is that supposed to be an answer?’

‘No,’ Micah said gently. ‘I told you. The answers are outside. Most of them, anyway. The food is best hot,’ he added, and before Catra could object he was gone again.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, the table was barely out of reach. Catra grimaced and levered herself upright. Almost immediately her knees gave out, hitting the mat with enough force that pain exploded up her legs, her calf muscles spasming as they had on the beach. She barely noticed. Her eyes were wide open, but that couldn’t be right; the floor in front of her was the washed out green-grey of the Fright Zone, and just beyond her field of vision she could sense the crackling red of Hordak’s force-field. Her breath came in gasps, then sobs, and no matter how loud the voice in her head telling her to _think_ , it was drowned out by the primordial terror of empty lungs.

Once, as a cadet, she had been forced to carry out a training exercise underwater. The others had adapted to the breathing apparatuses quickly enough, but Catra, never a fan of water, had found it impossible: her mind rejected the evidence of her body, insisted she was not breathing, could not be breathing, and every time she submerged, she found herself flailing for the surface, panicked and feral.

This time there was no surface she could breach. Her vision clouded. Her arms lashed out, and she felt the claws of her left hand dig into something hard and unyielding. It was the control console, she realised, at which Hordak stood—only he was not there now, and even as the strength drained from her body, she whipped her other hand around, delicate instruments splitting before her claws—

Catra came to on the floor of the hut. Her claws were lodged deep in the wood of the log-stool, her right hand smarting where splinters of bark had pierced the flesh.

She was breathing, great, gasping, uneven breaths, but breathing all the same. It wasn’t enough: the air in the hut felt stagnant. She jerked her hands away, hissing at the cold sting of her claws tearing free. Her knees did not let her down a second time. Balancing the tray of food in one hand, she crossed the distance between the table and the door in careful, mincing steps. One moment more, her hand motionless on the handle—then she opened the door and stepped out.

The air outside eddied, tugging at her fur, playful. It was much cooler. The prefab shelters always had kept the heat in too well.

She was in a clearing. Other buildings were dotted around; a few people walked by, casting glances in her direction. No one approached her. These were all things she knew in an absent way, information her instincts, trained to constant wariness, fed her without her even being aware of it. They did not matter. The only things that mattered were wind in her lungs and food in her stomach.

Presently she shoved the empty tray aside. She had almost no memory of the food itself, but it had been warm and filling, and her limbs felt surer than they had in days.

It was quiet. What people she’d seen had disappeared. Catra weighed her options. Back in the hut? Her ears flattened even to think of it. Escape into the forest, then. Possible—but she did not know if Beast Island was named with good reason. Blundering around alone could be unwise.

Wait. Watch. Learn. Do nothing. It was _doing_ that had got her into trouble in the past.

Micah found her about an hour later. He sat down next to her in the grass and wrapped his arms around his knees. By all appearances he was content to simply share her vigil.

‘Why are you so obsessed with me?’ she said when she could bear it no longer.

‘It is your first day on the island. This is my job.’

‘Being a cryptic asshole, you mean?’

His lips twitched. ‘You are outside. Ask your questions.’

‘You’d like that, would you?’

Micah sighed. ‘I cannot know why you are here, or what you have endured in being sent here. But I can tell you that you have no enemies on this island.’

‘Bullshit.’ This was a Horde prison. _Everyone_ here was her enemy.

‘If you will not tell me your name, perhaps you can tell me what rank you held in the Horde?’

Catra tail froze mid-lash. Had he found the—but no, she could still feel it in her hair. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she managed to say. ‘I’m from—’ The lie hung on her lips for several seconds as she struggled to think of a believable answer. ‘Bright Moon,’ she said at last.

‘Bright Moon?’ Micah’s head turned, slowly, and it made Catra’s tail twitch not to know what he sought in her expression. ‘Ah, I wish that were true. But you are lying, I think.’ Over Catra’s instinctive objections he added, ‘I do not hold it against you. But I am old, and I have been here far too long, and my days of being deceived are behind me.’

Catra knew how to lie, and she knew the consequences of being believed or being found out. (Her throat constricted a moment. She forced herself to swallow past it.) What was she supposed to do, when the lie did not land but no repercussions followed? It was as if all her rules, all the survival methods she’d built up over a lifetime spent with Shadow Weaver hovering over her neck like an executioner’s sword, had ceased to operate.

Micah clapped his hands together, too near her ear, and she jerked backwards. ‘So! If you will not answer my questions, and you will not ask your own, will you at least accompany me on a tour of the village?’

Catra watched Micah get laboriously to his feet. He had not been lying about his age. Up close she could tell his knees were weak, his hands gnarled and marbled with liver spots. Cryptic or not, she doubted he was dangerous. ‘Fine.’ She made sure to say it harshly. ‘I need to stretch my legs anyway.’

Wait. Watch. Learn.

*

Adora was still there in the morning.

Scorpia couldn’t decide if she found that fact surprising. Part of her—the same part that wanted to see Adora suffer for everything she’d abandoned Catra to—had been sure Adora’s presence the evening before had been purely selfish, a way to assuage her guilt before she fled back to the enveloping walls of Bright Moon.

That part was silenced now, and in its place the memory of every time Catra had opened up to her. There was sweetness in offering support and having it accepted, sweetness enough to ignore the look in Catra’s eyes when she forgot, for a moment, who she was speaking to, and just barely enough to ignore the crushing disappointment when she remembered. It had kept her awake at night. Catra’s solution was to hate Adora, but hatred did not come easily to Scorpia, and so she’d put her energies into being there when Catra needed her, showing her she could be whole without Adora. Showing her, if Scorpia was being honest, that Adora wasn’t worth the effort.

Only now Catra was missing, and Scorpia had gone straight to Adora for help. Only now Adora was still there, sword on back, pack in hand, and it was in Scorpia’s best interests to hope that she _was_ worth the effort.

‘What’s our plan?’

The look on Adora’s face dared Scorpia to object to the plural. ‘ _The_ plan,’ Scorpia said, gathering together the last of her supplies, ‘is to find Beast Island, figure out a way to get there, free Catra, and escape.’

‘Really? That’s it? That’s the whole plan?’

‘Unfortunately, I had to skip the part where I accepted the princess’ generous offer to look for information in the library at Bright Moon.’

‘Oh, you didn’t know? There’s a no-lending policy for people who tried to invade.’

Scorpia hoisted her pack and seated the straps between her shoulder spines. The task gave her a moment to think about her response. That was a good thing, because the uncertainty Adora had shown the previous evening was gone so comprehensively it gave Scorpia second thoughts. She liked to think she valued honesty in people, and if she assumed the uncertainty had been honest—well, that meant there was nothing to be gained from encouraging the aggression with which Adora was covering it up. Even if it meant letting her have the last word.

‘We’re going,’ Scorpia announced. She set off, following the same small animal trail that had brought her to the campsite in the first place.

Behind her she could hear Adora scrambling to catch up. ‘Going where?’

‘Away from Bright Moon. I want to make sure we don’t run into any misguided princesses who think I’ve kidnapped you.’

‘I left a note—’

‘I know.’ Scorpia slowed down a little. She’d become used to travelling alone, but her strides were too long for most other people. ‘But you saw how the princesses treated me. They paint me with the same brush as anyone else in the Horde. And if I’m being honest, I can’t really blame them! Oh, it makes me angry, let me tell you, the _double standards_ , but—’ Adora was giving her a strange look. Scorpia cleared her throat. ‘What I mean is, do you really think that—picking totally at random here—Frosta would believe you wrote that note willingly?’

Adora settled into silence. Scorpia left her to it and focused on her footing. Maps were never of much use where the Whispering Woods were concerned, but she was reasonably sure they’d reach a settlement if they followed the edge of the forest for a day or two. Perhaps it would have a library. There. That was a plan.

A few minutes later Adora said, ‘Glimmer might come after us even if she did believe it.’

‘Now you’re getting it.’

‘She might not be wrong to.’

‘The more the merrier, if she wants to help!’

Adora shot her a sideways look. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Look, Adora—if you’re having second thoughts it’s better to turn back now.’

‘No! That’s not it. _I’m_ not having second thoughts.’ Adora hesitated. ‘I’m just not sure my judgement can be trusted. You know. When it comes to Catra. So, I figure if the idea is bad enough for Glimmer to chase me down… well, then I’ll know that I _should_ be having second thoughts.’

That made a certain amount of sense. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s actually more self-aware than I was expecting.’ Up ahead the trail crossed a small stream. Scorpia rotated her mental map, frowned, and turned to follow the stream instead. ‘You’re taking it the wrong way, aren’t you?’

‘Can you blame me? I’m still struggling with the fact that we’re getting along as well as we are.’

‘Hey, give us some credit! We got along great when you were, uh, a little bit loopy.’

Adora flinched. ‘That was different.’

Scorpia opened her mouth to respond, but Adora was accelerating, widening the distance between them until conversation became impossible. ‘Wonderful,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Great job, Scorpia. Remember _why_ she was loopy, huh?’

Despite it all, it was a good day for walking. All three moons were high in the sky, the faint triple-shadows of the trees overlapping in a dozen shades of grey. Adora maintained her distance for the next hour, but even when she dropped back to join Scorpia their silence continued. Theirs was a precarious alliance. No use risking it even further.

Somewhere past noon Scorpia stopped for lunch. Her supplies were running a little low: she had only a few ration bars left, plus what fruit she’d managed to pilfer en route. She unwrapped one of the ration bars, a grey one, and ate with her back against a tree, eyes fixed on the forest around her.

‘Why do you care so much?’

It was the first thing Adora had said all afternoon, and when Scorpia looked up, she was holding something out like a peace offering: a chunk of bread, dark and thick with seeds. She imagined lashing out, knocking it out of Adora’s hand, watching her expression turn hard again. That was what Catra would have done.

She said, ‘Thank you.’

Adora shrugged. ‘I remember what the ration bars are like.’

Scorpia had never known Adora in the Horde. It was disconcerting to imagine her in one of the Fright Zone’s mess halls, complaining about the food like just another cadet.

She didn’t have much experience with fresh food, but the bread was delicious, rich and sweet and _variable,_ soft on the inside, crusty on the outside, so unlike the bland, homogenous food in the Horde. She was licking up the crumbs when Adora repeated her question.

‘Why do I care about what?’

‘Catra.’ Adora said her name as if there were no other topic the two of them could possibly have to discuss. ‘You haven’t even known her that long.’

It was a frustratingly good question. Scorpia’s life would be simpler if she knew the easy answer. ‘I care about her,’ she said eventually.

‘Okay. Why?’

Scorpia clicked a claw in irritation. ‘Why do _you_ care?’

‘Lifelong habit,’ Adora countered. ‘And I asked first.’

‘I just do! I think she’s remarkable, and—and capable, but she’s broken, you know? I want to help her. I want to be there for her. She doesn’t deserve anything that’s happened to her.’

‘And you think I broke her.’

Scorpia met Adora’s gaze and did not blanch. ‘Your words.’

‘Yeah, well, turns out she didn’t need me after all.’

‘She needs _someone_. That’s why I care.’

Adora looked away. ‘I’m not so sure that she does.’

Scorpia’s tail snapped round, point threatening Adora. ‘She deserves love as much as _anyone_ —’

‘You didn’t say _deserves_ , you said _needs_.’

‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means—’ Adora drew herself up. Scorpia braced herself for the outburst and wondered if they would ever get through a conversation without drawing blood. ‘Nothing.’

‘I—what?’

‘It means nothing. Never mind.’ It was as if a coin had been flipped and come up face-uncertain again. Adora looked—no, deflated was the wrong word. She had backed down, deliberately, but that didn’t make her weak. She was making an effort. ‘I might have an idea.’

 Scorpia could make an effort, too. Her tail relaxed at her side. ‘About what?’

‘You wanted a library? I know where we can find a library.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me tell you, catra's section took like half the time of scorpia's. writing scorpia is HARD because she acts so differently around her friends vs her enemies, and how is she supposed to act around adora?? argh. hopefully it works :D
> 
> anyway, let me know what y'all thought! I'm excited to get to the meat of this fic :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scorpia and Adora look at maps. Catra finally asks some questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said my plan was to finish before season three? Whoops. Anyway, I'm back! My summer was mega busy in all the best ways, but season three ended up taking things in a very different direction, so overall I think this fic is still on track. (Especially since we now know for sure that Micah is alive.) :D
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this chapter, and let's see if I can wrap up before season four...

It was the largest building Scorpia had ever seen outside the Fright Zone. Not counting castles. Did castles count as buildings? They were _built_ , but it was more like a lot of smaller buildings squished together, and—

‘Follow my lead,’ Adora said and knocked.

Scorpia blinked. Her thoughts had been all a-scatter since she’d passed the planning off to Adora. It was like a dam had been released, all the idle thoughts she hadn’t allowed herself to think flowing through her mind the moment she relaxed the barriers. It felt—good, she realised. Good to let someone else think the important things for a time. To let herself recharge.

The door opened. The man on the other side was one of the strangest people Scorpia had ever seen. He wore pyjamas printed with urns and glyphs in a language Scorpia didn’t recognise, and one finger was marking his place in a book half again as large as any she’d ever read. Neat dreadlocks framed a face built for laughter. ‘Adora! What an unexpected pleasure!’

‘Hello, Lance.’ Adora’s smile was a shade nervous. ‘I’m sorry to drop in like this—’

‘Nonsense! Bow’s friends are always welcome. And Bow’s friends’ friends.’ He treated Scorpia to a beaming smile. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met?’

‘Oh, um, this is Scorpia—’ Adora cut herself off, as if remembering too late it might have been better to give a fake name, but if Lance had any idea who Scorpia was it didn’t deter him. ‘She’s a... friend. Scorpia, this is Lance. He’s Bow’s dad. One of them, anyway.’

Before Scorpia could reply, Lance was already ushering them inside, leading the way down a corridor. Adora had told her where they were going, of course, but still Scorpia found herself struggling to understand that this house, large as it was, was simply someone’s home. Was it decadent, or were the cramped living quarters of the Horde cruel?

‘How is Bow, anyway? Is he around? George and I do miss that boy, you know—and speaking of, you’ve just missed George! He’s in Salineas, actually, would you believe it, archaeology conference, a few months ago he wouldn’t even have considered travelling to one of the Alliance kingdoms, I daresay that’s your influence—’

Adora tried to keep up, giving monosyllabic answers to the onslaught of questions, but Scorpia gave up and let the wash of conversation carry her in its wake. She found herself smiling.

‘I’m sorry, Scorpia,’ Lance said as they settled in around a coffee table. Adora hadn’t been exaggerating when she described the library: if anything, it was _too_ big. How were they supposed to find a single piece of information in all those books? ‘We’ve been ignoring you! Tell me, how do you know Adora? Are you a princess too?’

‘Yes,’ said Scorpia, only there was Adora, saying ‘No,’ at the exact same moment, and she _had_ said to follow her lead, but it had been such a simple question, and now Lance was looking at them with some confusion.

‘Well, yes by birth—’

‘Not so much, functionally?’

‘I can’t, you know, _do_ anything—’

‘Ah!’ Lance clapped his hands together. ‘I know how it is. A modern world, eh, it’s only right that we start thinking about monarchies in a modern way, too, don’t you think?’

‘Er—I suppose so.’ Scorpia smiled. There was something freeing about the way Lance shrugged off the contradiction. In the Horde, you were either one thing or another. ‘Yeah. I think you’re right.’

Lance beamed at her. ‘Now, tell me, what can I do for you? I assume this isn’t _just_ a social visit?’

‘It isn’t,’ Adora said, a little too quickly, casting a glance in Scorpia's direction, and Scorpia’s feathers—if she’d had feathers; her spines, perhaps—Scorpia's spines ruffled. Just because she’d made one small error didn’t mean she couldn't keep her mouth shut when it was necessary. ‘We’re, uh, looking for a place. Princess Alliance business, very important. We thought you might have, you know. A map.’

Lance raised his eyebrows. ‘I'm happy to help, of course, but why come here? You can’t be telling me there are no maps in Bright Moon.’ He paused. ‘Can you? Please tell me you at least have a library.’

‘Of course! It’s just—none of the maps are big enough—no, uh, old enough, to be the right map, and—’

Scorpia couldn’t help it: she was staring. No wonder Catra found it so easy to manipulate her, when Adora must surely have been the world’s worst liar. ‘We're looking for a place called Beast Island,’ she interrupted once she could bear no more. ‘Adora suggested we stop here because it was easier than going back to Bright Moon.’ True enough, as far as it went. ‘Time is of the essence.’

‘Beast Island.’ Lance’s expression had gone far away, all thoughts of Bright Moon and its cartographically deficient library banished. ‘It doesn't immediately spring to mind, but not to worry, I'm sure we’ll be on its trail in no time!’

That was all it took, apparently. Within fifteen minutes Lance had one map unfurled on the table and another dozen rolled up in haphazard piles.

Beast Island proved itself stubbornly intractable. The lines on Lance’s face grew more pronounced as the pile of maps dwindled. In other circumstances, Scorpia might have admired those maps: each was a piece of art in its own right, the continents and islands of Etheria picked out in neat, sharp lines, towns and mountains and forests labelled with looping letters. None of those letters formed the words _Beast Island_.

‘We might be going about this the wrong way,’ Lance said an hour into the search. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about this place?’

‘Could it be known by a different name?’ Adora was frowning at the latest map, a faded scrap of mould and mildew that barely deserved the name. ‘Some of the other names on this one are different. Maybe we’ve just been looking for the wrong name.’

Scorpia looked expectantly at Lance, only to find her expression mirrored in his. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You’re asking me? I have no idea. I keep telling you, I know barely more than you do.’

Lance cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what you _do_ know.’

‘Well…’ Adora glanced at Scorpia and sighed. ‘I don’t think we should—it’s, er, top secret. What we’re doing. Thanks for all the help, Lance. I’m sorry we wasted your time, but we should probably be on our way—’

‘Now wait just one minute.’ Adora could pretend she was on stamped-and-approved princess business all she liked, but Scorpia had no such delusions. ‘Beast Island,’ she said before Adora could object, ‘is a Horde prison. People who are sent there are never heard from again, apparently. I grew up with the stories.’

‘You grew up in… ?’ Lance was looking at her thoughtfully.

‘In the Fright Zone. Yes. Just like Adora.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Scorpia saw Adora wince.

‘Wait,’ Lance said, snapping his fingers. ‘Wait! I have something.’ He pointed at Scorpia. ‘Grew up with, you said? Since you were a kid?’

‘Er. Yes.’

‘And you were in the Horde.’

Scorpia nodded. He sounded like a man confirming a simple fact, not passing judgement.

‘So!’ Lance’s eyes shone. ‘Beast Island must be a name the Horde gave some other island in Etheria. And, correct me if I’m wrong, George is the soldier after all, not me, but it would have to be somewhere safe—somewhere firmly in Horde territory. Right?’

‘Right,’ Adora said slowly. ‘But there are islands all over Horde territory.’

‘Ah! _Now_ there are, yes, but if you’ve been hearing about Beast Island for as long as you say, that narrows it down. You see, the Horde invasion took place in two phases. First, the initial expansion, before anyone had co-ordinated to oppose them.’ He indicated a swathe of the map in the north. ‘Then, after the first Princess Alliance fell apart, they began to expand again, slowly but surely. That’s where we’re at today. Searching that whole area would be hopeless. But if Beast Island has existed for anywhere near twenty years…’

‘Then it must be in that initial area!’

It was Adora who said it aloud, but Scorpia had come to the same conclusion, was already tracing the coastline north, and—‘There’s only one island here,’ she said, caressing the crescent coastline of what she knew, unshakeably, to be Beast Island. ‘What was this place?’

‘Of course.’ Lance’s expression as he stared at the map was unnaturally serious. ‘I should have guessed.’ He glanced at Adora, then at Scorpia. ‘It’s a good thing you came to a historian.’

*

Catra snapped on the fourth day.

There was a cause—a proximate cause, at least—but in truth she’d been barrelling towards breakage ever since waking up in the strange Beast Island village. The tour Micah had offered did little to help. Yes, there was a village; yes, several dozen people lived there; yes, every day they went off somewhere else and returned in the evening. The deeper questions remained unanswered.

In Micah’s defence, they also remained unasked. Catra could not say why she was so opposed to the concept of asking. On one level it was because he had invited her too. Beast Island was a hostile place, she felt that in her bones, and she responded to hostility with contrariness, even when it wasn’t in her best interests.

Or it could have been that she did not wish to know, that knowing would set the rest of her life in stone. In the moments before sleep she imagined growing old on Beast Island, fading, receding. The thought made her nauseous. Every night she slept sweaty and trembling.

‘Come with me,’ Micah said on the morning of the fourth day.

‘Where?’

‘I want you to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

Catra substituted those questions in place of the bigger ones, as if knowing the immediate facts could make up for lacking the important ones, as if she could continue to live her life, day by day, forgetful of where she’d been and where she might go. It was easier that way.

‘Friends of mine. Will you come?’

They had come to an unspoken sort of agreement. He asked her to do little things; she agreed to everything and accepted nothing. ‘I’ll come.’

Micah’s friends lived together in a hut at the far end of the village. They were two men, a satyr and a human, middle-aged and friendly in that way Catra could not bring herself to trust, wide-smiled and welcoming.

‘How are you doing?’ Micah asked once introductions had been made and they had taken their positions, the three of them sitting and Catra standing, stiffly, by the door. ‘Shoulder bothering you?’

‘Kelik was hurt in the mines,’ Cyril, the human, said for Catra’s benefit while Micah poked and prodded at Kelik’s shoulder. ‘Micah tries his best to take care of us.’

Sarcasm gathered on Catra’s tongue. Before she could unleash it, Micah said: ‘There’s some inflammation. It could be infected. I don’t want to risk it.’

‘It’s all right,’ Kelik said, ‘you don’t have to waste it on me—’

‘I don’t want to risk it,’ Micah repeated.

Catra’s gaze flicked from one man to the next. There was something going on she didn’t understand.

‘All right,’ Kelik said at last.

The magic happened.

It was only the briefest flash of blue, like moonlight contained in Micah’s cupped palm as he pressed it to Kelik’s shoulder.

Catra growled. Cyril looked up in surprise. ‘What?’ she snapped. ‘You think I’m dumb? I know what you’re trying to do.’

‘Oh?’ Micah’s voice was as mild as ever. ‘What am I trying to do?’

‘You come in here, show me how _nice_ you are, how lovely life is on this fucking island, how you take _care_ of people. You think that’ll work? I’ve been here before, Micah. I’ve lived this. And if you think your fucking _magic tricks_ are going to convince me you’re trustworthy, you don’t know the first _fucking_ thing about me.’

Kelik and Cyril blinked owlishly at her. Micah’s expression was unchanged. ‘You’re right. I know nothing about you.’

Catra snarled. ‘I’m through.’

*

‘Cyril was a Horde officer. Before your time.’

‘Leave me alone.’ Catra moved further into the shadow of the trees. Any further and she would risk entering the forest proper, risk finding certainty where she’d grown accustomed to uncertainty.

‘He was a Force Captain in the battle that destroyed Kelik’s home town.’

Something snapped—some suspension of disbelief shattered. It was like finding herself in a fairytale, like the person she’d become hung suspended in a world that was not quite ticking, and now the clock was wound once again.

‘What is this place? Who are you? What the _hell_ is going on?’

Micah breathed out. Closed his eyes. Opened them. ‘This is a prison, and I was its first prisoner. I have been here—’ He gazed past her shoulder. Catra wondered what he was seeing. ‘A decade. Two. I do not know for sure. I lost track around the tenth year, and only regained it when the second prisoner arrived. Six years have passed since then.’

He said it so easily it took a few moments for the implications to unfold. _Long decades,_ he had said on the first day, and now Catra understood. It was enough to stop her self-righteousness in its tracks. She tried to comprehend it: twenty years or near enough trapped on an island, half of them alone—but her thoughts refused to grasp the idea, as if she had asked them to handle a stone slick with algae. Twenty years. Her entire life, to a first approximation. Who would she be if she’d spent half that time alone? What would she have become if Adora’s absence had stretched to years rather than mere months?

She had thought Micah a harmless old man, eccentric, dissembling, heart bleeding. Now she dared meet his gaze and saw the truth: beneath dark eyes lay something implacable, something old and hidden and utterly immovable, like bedrock beneath black water. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

‘Sit.’ Micah heeded his own request and patted the root next to his. ‘I will tell you everything.’

Catra sat.

‘I was once a soldier. That is all I will say of the circumstances of my capture, because for our purposes, my life began the day I was taken to the Fright Zone. My presence there put the Horde in an uncomfortable position. They could risk neither killing me nor keeping me there. So they devised an alternate solution.’ Micah’s outspread arms encompassed the clearing, the village, the island. ‘Beast Island was newly empty. It was firmly within Horde territory. If anyone came looking, they would look first in the Horde’s prisons, their mines and work camps. Not a seemingly abandoned island.

‘So it was for a long, long time. I lived. Alone. From time to time I saw my jailers, when they brought me food, and later tools. I taught myself to survive. To thrive, in a certain way.’ Micah’s face contorted, like a man who knows his memories are rosier than reality but cannot help yearning for the past regardless. ‘The punishment, you see, was not in the terms of my imprisonment. Beast Island is not a terrible place to live.

‘No one ever did come looking. They all thought me dead. Then there came a little twist of fate. There is an ore the Horde uses in its technology that we on Etheria have never mined. I do not know its name. But it is abundant on Beast Island, and when the Horde made that discovery, well—they raised the shroud of secrecy, just a little, and brought other prisoners here. I was the perfect test case. Ten years I had in which to escape and I assure you, I tried. None of my attempts were successful. I never even made it to dry land.’ One of his hands dropped to the place around his ankle where the cuff’s outline was visible beneath his clothes. ‘What harm, then, if others learned of my survival, when we so clearly could not leave?’

All at once, Catra was angry again. ‘And, what, you’ve just _sat_ here ever since?’

‘If you insist on putting it that way.’

‘You’re a sorcerer,’ Catra spat. ‘You’re from Mystacor. I thought your kind were supposed to be _powerful_. What’s the fucking point, if you can’t even get yourself off an island?’

‘I could get myself off this island.’

That stopped Catra in her tracks. ‘You—what? Then why don’t you?’

‘Because I’m not willing to pay the price.’

‘Then you’re weak.’ Catra stood up. ‘If I were in your place, I’d do _anything_ to escape. _Anything_.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Micah said it easily, his smile never faltering.

‘I know that if you have power, you should use it. Otherwise what—is—the— _point?_ ’

Micah hoisted himself upright. ‘Do you know how magic works?’

Catra thought of the marks on the floor of Shadow Weaver’s cell, the badge discarded next to them, the perfect, crushing helplessness she’d felt. Even if she’d wanted to stop Shadow Weaver, she wouldn’t have known how.

‘What Mystacor teaches,’ Micah said, obviously taken her silence as a _no_ , ‘is how to collect, amplify, strengthen. These are processes that require special equipment, special procedures. But the fundamental fact of magic is that it exists in the world, if you know where to look. Certain plants, certain minerals. The ore we mine here is rich with it, did you know? I tried to hoard it once, until I could escape.’ He flinched. ‘They caught on before I had anywhere near enough. If only I could smelt it—I can hardly imagine how powerful the pure metal would be…’

Catra’s heart was beating very fast. ‘What’s your point?’ she snapped, to hide her sudden discomfort.

Micah’s eyes focused on her again. ‘My point,’ he said crisply, ‘is that one of the richest sources of magic in the world is people.’

‘ _People?_ ’

‘Yes. This is not a fact Mystacor is fond of spreading, but I had certain extracurricular instruction, and I know the theory. I could escape Beast Island, Catra. I could have escaped a long time ago. All I’d have to do is murder half a dozen of the people who rely on me.’

Catra’s tail lashed. Her ears flattened. Micah never stopped smiling at her. For once, she had no response.

‘You think you could do it, don’t you? You think you’re desperate enough, cold enough, amoral enough. But, Catra,’ and his voice was terrifyingly soft, ‘you have no idea what it’s really like, and you have so very far left to fall.’

Catra fled before his smile and his voice and his terrible insinuations. She fled to the safety of her hut, threw herself on the bed, and grasped for the Force Captain’s badge she’d smuggled onto the island and hidden beneath her pillow.

She’d brought it on a whim, as a reminder of what she’d accomplished—that even laid low, she wasn’t no-one. That thought seemed distant now, belonging to a Catra who had not seen a former Force Captain smile at his satyr husband. It seemed absurd to her, but at the same time it confirmed what she’d always known: none if it _mattered_. Not the Horde, not the Rebellion, none of it. What mattered was people: what they owed you, and what you owed them.

She would earn Micah’s trust. She would convince him to help her escape. And she would hunt Shadow Weaver to the ends of the world, if that was what it took. She would get what she was owed.

Catra caressed warmth into the coolness of the badge. She’d put it together the moment Micah had made his little confession. She’d endured Scorpia’s endless lectures on logistics, Entrapta’s prattling about Horde technology, and now it was paying off, because she knew what was mined on Beast Island. She knew the Horde called it _moonmetal_ , in its pure form, the form Micah coveted so openly.

And she knew it was what her badge was made of.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scorpia crosses a tree.

They argued all the way through the woods.

‘Let’s find a ship,’ Adora said for the third time. ‘It makes the most sense! I know a guy, I’m sure he’d help—’

‘Hold on a minute,’ Scorpia said, ducking under yet another branch. Adora never seemed to have any problems with the trees. The curse of being tall, Scorpia supposed. ‘Sea Hawk, right?’

‘Oh,’ Adora said. ‘Right. I forgot you’d met.’

‘We did! Really delightful guy. Great conversationalist. Really relatable, you know, I’d love to have dinner with him some time and really just shoot the breeze.’

‘Uh-huh. But?’

‘But I’ve met him three times and two of those times his ship ended up on fire. So I’m just saying—’

‘You don’t like those odds?’

‘I don’t like those odds!’

They’d come to one of the clearings that dotted the Whispering Woods like bubbles bursting on the surface of a pond. Adora groaned, set her sword down, and stretched. ‘That’s different. Those were battles.’

‘And what makes you think there’d be no battle this time? The sea up there is full of Horde ships!’

‘We can sneak past—’

‘Won’t work. Entrapta totally overhauled the ship systems. They’ll detect anything bigger than a canoe from miles off. I’m telling you, the best way to sneak is by land.’

‘How do I know,’ Adora said grimly, ‘that you’re not just trying to keep me away from my allies?’

Scorpia was, if she was being honest, more than a little hurt. ‘Really? I thought we were past that.’

‘And I thought you were past making Entrapta do things for you, but somehow there’s always something else!’

Scorpia considered pointing out that she was being unfair, that this had been several months ago, before she’d left the Horde and before, she was fairly sure, the Princess Alliance had even known Entrapta was still alive. There was something in the way Adora said it, though—something in the way she made assumptions without even realising it—that stopped her. ‘You know,’ she said instead, ‘I really don’t get you. You hate Catra for not leaving the Horde with you, but Entrapta actually switched sides and you act like she needs rescuing!’

‘ _What?_ ’ Adora spluttered. ‘They aren’t remotely comparable! You—you _manipulated_ Entrapta into staying with you! She was your prisoner. We thought she was dead!’

‘Maybe at first. But you know Entrapta. Do you _really_ think we could have stopped her from leaving if she wanted to leave? She likes it in the Horde! You have to accept that. You have to respect it. Do you know, I think she’s even starting to win Hordak over? I never thought I’d see the day that man had a friend, but here we are.’

‘She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t _choose_ to—’ Adora took a deep breath. She moved to the edge of the clearing, staring into the trees, and Scorpia, feeling a flash of guilt, followed. ‘I just don’t understand why she’d choose them over us.’

‘You don’t have to understand,’ Scorpia said, more gently. ‘But she made her choice. Like Catra made her choice.’

‘ _You_ don’t understand.’ Adora sounded, abruptly, on the verge of tears, and the guilt compounded. ‘With Catra it was _personal_.’

‘I do understand. That’s why you find it easier to forgive Entrapta.’

Adora was silent for a long time, listening to wind-stirred branches. Then: ‘I guess that’s true.’

Scorpia should have left it there. Order was restored. Their truce was back in fragile equilibrium. ‘Adora,’ she began. ‘If you understand why Catra’s betrayal hurts you more than Entrapta’s, you understand why _you_ hurt Catra, too.’

Adora turned so fast, Scorpia’s tail rose in instinctive defence. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that Catra—’ Scorpia paused. Adora was looking at her funny. ‘What?’

‘The tree—’

The rest of Adora’s words were lost. The branches that had been sneaking up on Scorpia surged into action, wrapping around her middle and raising her into the air, rough bark scraping off against her spines but pinning her tail securely to her back. ‘Oh,’ Scorpia said. ‘Well, this is new.’

Adora stared at her in horror. ‘What did you _do_?’

‘I don’t know! They’re your trees, aren’t they?’ She tapped the branches with one claw, experimentally. The tree gave her a little shake, as if to say, _no funny business_. ‘Maybe you could _get me down_.’

Adora hesitated. Not for long, but Scorpia could read the indecision in her face: here was a chance to back out of the mission, to leave Scorpia and return to Bright Moon as if nothing had happened. Perhaps she would have done, if she truly thought Scorpia was planning to betray her. Perhaps she would have left and returned with soldiers to capture Scorpia, the way her friend the princess had once captured Catra.

But Adora was a good person. She might have turned on Scorpia if she thought it was the right thing to do—but she wouldn’t do it simply because they’d had a falling out.

‘Hold on,’ Adora said, scrambling for her sword. She held it up towards the tree, like a queen hefting her sceptre of office. ‘Tree! Uh—let her go, please?’

The tree drew in on itself, branches wilting, as if saying _really?_

‘It’s okay. She wasn’t threatening me. We were just talking.’

A shake, the rustle of leaves falling— _if you_ insist—and then the branches withdrew, and Scorpia had half a second to appreciate the ease of her breath before the ground knocked it out of her all over again. ‘Ow.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be.’ Scorpia paused for breath. ‘Are _we_ okay? You’re not going to hit me when I get up, are you?’

Adora sighed. ‘Yeah. We are. I’m sorry. I haven’t—I mean, she hasn’t—’ She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not really used to… hearing things from her point of view. That’s all.’

‘Maybe it’ll be good for you,’ Scorpia muttered. ‘Maybe it’d be good for _both_ of you.’

‘You’re right. It would.’ When Scorpia looked up in surprise, Adora was holding out her hand. ‘Shall we? Long way to go, if we’re going to sneak past the Horde on foot.’

*

If Micah was surprised when Catra asked about joining the work crews three days later, he did not show it. Perhaps he thought it was working—that Catra was falling for his image of an island separate from the rest of the world, where such divisions as _Horde_ versus _Rebellion_ did not matter. Regardless, he was there the morning after, and she put on the most convincing smile she could muster and followed him into the jungle for the first time.

The mine was dug into the side of a hill, more horizontal than vertical. There were generators outside, feeding the electric lights hammered at intervals into the hardened dirt of the mine shaft. From within, the rhythmic sound of pickaxes on rock; outside, the low murmur of prisoners who were, apparently, taking a break. There were no guards. Why would there be? If ever the flow of ore from Beast Island slowed, the Horde could sweep in from the mainland with stun-baton and shackle and put things right.

And yet—‘They’re putting a lot of faith in your obedience,’ Catra said, probing.

Micah was selecting pickaxes from a pile by the entrance. They all looked the same to Catra. ‘Once there was an illness in the village. Many of us became weak. Mining was difficult. The Horde thought we were resisting, and came ashore. They did not believe our reasons.’ He held out one of the pickaxes, and Catra found herself wondering how Horde armour would fare against that heavy iron blade. ‘Do not mistake their distance for lack of control.’

Catra thought of Hordak’s imp, of the way Shadow Weaver had always known more than she should have. She scowled. ‘I know their ways better than you, old man. But…’ She made her voice sickly sweet. ‘I wonder what the Princess Alliance would think, if they knew how eagerly the Horde’s prisoners were co-operating?’

Micah, who had begun to lead the way into the mine shaft, froze. ‘The Princess Alliance is dead.’

‘Is it? If you say so. Except… I wonder who I’ve been fighting all this time?’

Very slowly, Micah turned to face her. ‘It does not matter,’ he said, and Catra knew by the tight control in his voice that he was lying. ‘The only thing that matters is survival. I will not lead my people into needless death.’

It was the first sensible thing he’d ever said to her. ‘If you say so,’ she repeated.

That day Catra learnt the genius of the Horde’s work on Beast Island. She wondered whose idea it had been—Shadow Weaver’s, surely? It was too subtle for Hordak. He would have posted guards, overseers, forced the prisoners to work. He would not have allowed breaks. He would not have allowed the stronger prisoners to pick up the slack and cover for their weaker friends. It would not have occurred to him to imprison them in a world of their making, a world that was not, ultimately, so unbearably bad.

She wasn’t used to the work. Every stroke of the pickaxe jarred through her, and she embraced the sensation, let it remind her how _wrong_ this was. It was so easy to imagine biding her time, waiting months for the perfect opportunity. That was a trap. By the time her arms grew used to the motions of mining, it would be too late. She would be caught in the same trap as the other prisoners, her desire to escape scoured away by routine, and Shadow Weaver would win.

‘Is this stuff really magical?’ she asked at the end of their shift, watching Micah examine a cartload of moonmetal ore. ‘Looks like rocks to me.’

‘If you were trained by Mystacor,’ he said mildly, ‘you would not need to ask that question.’

‘If I was trained by Mystacor,’ she said, heckles rising as she met his gaze, ‘I wouldn’t be stuck on this island.’

‘Is that so?’ There was something new in Micah’s voice: some tension she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Tell me, how is it that you know so much about Mystacor?’

Catra picked up a handful of ore and held it under his nose. ‘I was raised by a sorceress,’ she said. ‘And if she were here, she’d pull the magic out of every living thing if it got her what she wanted.’

Micah made a noise something like a sigh, as if the tension was now leaving him. ‘I am surprised to hear you defending Shadow Weaver.’

Catra’s fur rose all over her body. He said it so casually, turned so easily back to digging through the mine cart, that the surprise had plenty of time to wash over her. First, that he knew Shadow Weaver—that he’d inferred so easily who must have raised her. Stupid. She was underestimating him because he’d spent so long on the island, but there was only one sorceress who’d turned on Mystacor and joined the Horde.

And second: that he thought she was defending Shadow Weaver, as if she wanted to prove her old jailer superior to her new one. The idea was ridiculous.

‘I’m not defending her,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Really?’ He sounded like he was only half paying attention.

‘Look at me!’ Catra refused to look away when he relented and met her gaze. She knew her eyes were as unnerving as the sympathy welling in his. ‘I _hate_ Shadow Weaver.’

‘I know,’ he said softly, ‘that however you feel about Shadow Weaver, it is too complex for a single word to encompass.’

Rage rose in Catra, the rage of a lifetime of being told what to do and how to feel. All thoughts of winning Micah over, of convincing him to help her escape, fell away. Her pain was _hers_. He would not take it from her. ‘Don’t talk to me like you know a _thing_ about what I went through!'

‘I’ll talk to you as I please, because I’d wager I do.’

‘What,’ Catra spat, ‘can you possibly know about Shadow Weaver and what she did—'

‘Everything!’ he roared, and Catra realised too late that she’d walked right into his trap, that this was the question he’d been waiting for. ‘I was there when Shadow Weaver was born. She was there the day I died!’

She took an involuntary step backwards, her ears flattened against his outburst. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ she said, because anger had always served her better than fear.

Micah’s anger receded like a fire settling back down after a flare. He blinked twice, and when he spoke his words came fast and urgent, devoid of their usual humour. ‘I had a teacher, once, the greatest teacher the world has ever seen, and her name was Light Spinner. She told me stories of the great, glorious things we could accomplish together—we could stop the Horde in its tracks, we could save Etheria, if only we put aside the laws of Mystacor, and I was young and _stupid_ and I did what she bade me, and when the day came—’ His throat constricted. ‘They all _died_. The greatest minds of Mystacor, dead because I helped her become what she is now!’

Catra was prepared to dismiss him. True, she hadn’t known he was one of Shadow Weaver’s students, but surely no one knew her like she did, no one had suffered at her hands like she had, and—

Micah said, ‘And the first thing Shadow Weaver did in this world was save my life.’

That brought Catra’s train of thought to a halt. ‘She—what?’

‘She shielded me from the power that killed the others. That, I thought, was proof.’ His voice was gentle now, soft, the voice of a younger, more optimistic man. ‘She truly cared about me. I clung to that—she hadn’t simply used me, she’d _believed_ in me, and when the opportunity arrived, I was sure, I could get through to her. I could convince her to abandon Hordak, return to Mystacor, because she _cared_. She had not let me die.’

The memory of a hand, caressing her, Shadow Weaver’s voice whispering sweetly in her ear. Catra raised her arm, curled tufts of hair around her fingers. ‘Shadow Weaver doesn’t care about people like us,’ she whispered.

Micah met her eyes and his smile was old and terribly sad. ‘Child, Shadow Weaver cares about _no one_ save herself. I learnt that lesson. I went to her, in the middle of the grand battle, the battle that would win the war once and for all. I went to her with the light of Bright Moon behind me and the compassion I’d fought so hard to learn, and…’

‘And…?’

‘And she killed me.’ Micah laughed. ‘What else? Everyone saw it happen. She did it right out in the open. No one even _thought_ to question what they saw. By the time her illusions evaporated, I was in the Fright Zone. And that was that.’

‘But why—’ Catra licked her lips. It was not an easy question to ask. ‘Why did she keep you alive? What was the point?’

‘Because she wanted to punish me.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. She could have wiped your memories. That’s what she tried to do to—’ Catra caught herself. There was no reason to think Micah would recognise the name, but still it felt wrong to name Adora here.

Micah sighed. ‘She’d moved on. She had new projects. New proteges. I wasn’t relevant anymore. But she still wanted to have me, you see? That’s how she thinks. Her things are _hers_ , even if she does not want them anymore. No one else may have them. Least of all the people who love them.’

This was not the Micah she had come to know. He was too honest, too open—he spoke of the past where previously he had been rooted, firmly and unflinchingly, in the present. Was it another trick? She wanted to shut him down. She wanted to pretend she didn’t care and change the subject. But— _I wasn’t relevant anymore_ , he’d said. She wasn’t relevant anymore, either. Shadow Weaver had made that clear. ‘Who were they?’

‘Hmm?’

Catra shoved aside the taunting shame that came with _caring_ and said, gruffly, ‘The people who loved you.’

The expression that blossomed on Micah’s face, fond and soft and tender, proved that, for all his claims, he had not forgotten his past. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Angella. And our daughter. She was so very small… Her name was—’

‘Glimmer,’ Catra said abruptly. How had she not seen it before? He had the same stubbornness, the same irritating smile. ‘ _Fuck!_ You’re the king of fucking Bright Moon!’ She knew Queen Angella’s husband had fallen in the first rebellion—of course she did, Horde propaganda being what it was—but apparently she hadn’t paid enough attention to remember his goddamn _name_.

‘You know her…?’ Micah flinched, as if the words belonged to someone else and he was surprised to hear them coming out of his own mouth. ‘No,’ he said, more firmly. ‘Another man was king of Bright Moon. I am Micah of Beast Island.’

‘Bullshit,’ Catra snapped. ‘You still care.’

‘I care. But it is in the past.’

‘It doesn’t have to be!’ Adrenaline surged through Catra: could it be so easy? Surely his desire for revenge was as strong as hers. ‘Escape with me! Shadow Weaver destroyed your life? She destroyed mine too. So _help me_ _find her_. We’ll destroy her, we’ll make sure she never has a shred of power ever again—’

‘Who was yours?’

‘ _What?_ ’ The word came out harsher than she expected, more frustrated, because it was so _obvious_. Micah could give her everything she wanted, if only he would understand that it was what he wanted, too.

‘The person whose memories Shadow Weaver tried to wipe. The person who loved you.’

Catra stared at him, breathing heavily. ‘No one. She’s no one.’

‘Well!’ Micah shovelled one last load of ore into the cart, then wiped his hands on his shirt. ‘I think we’re done here. I’ll show you where the carts go another day.’

‘What? No. We’re not done here. Don’t you get it, why can’t you _see_ —’

‘I get it, Catra. I do. More than you know. But this is not the right time for this conversation.’

‘Why _not?_ ’

Micah looked up at her, and he was once again the man who’d welcomed her to Beast Island, the man with the cryptic smiles and useless words. ‘Because the greatest mistake Shadow Weaver ever made was leave me with the memories of my family.’

He left her there with nothing but a pickaxe to swing against the stone walls of his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, we're getting somewhere! as ever, I'd love to know what y'all thought :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah and Catra go on a field trip. Scorpia applies her knowledge of practical programming to a combat situation.

Nothing made sense anymore.

By day, Catra held herself carefully separate from the other islanders; by night she faced the wall in her tiny prefab cabin and pretended she felt restful. All the while, her thoughts traced endless fractals, promising something new each iteration but never delivering anything but the same absence of answers.

Micah was the King of Bright Moon. Shadow Weaver had used him, discarded him, but left him his memories. All this Catra could accept. She could see the ruthless logic of the punishment: trap a man on an island forever with memories of the family he could never see again. What could be worse? And yet—he refused to listen to her plans. He had not given up, she _knew_ he had not given up, she could hear it in his voice when he spoke of the past he’d left behind, but however obliquely she approached the topic of Shadow Weaver, he refused to entertain her with a blankness she hadn’t come close to cracking.

That was where her line of thought turned jagged. Catra burned her hatred of Shadow Weaver like a generator burned oil. She could not imagine continuing without it—could not imagine, in Micah’s place, wanting anything else. That disconnect, between the real Micah and the Micah she imagined, stymied her again and again. How could she convince him to help her, when she could not even conceive why he wanted what he wanted?

‘Why don’t you _care_?’ Catra asked him one evening, hiding tears of frustration with anger. She’d followed him as he left his shift at the mine, down the beaten path through the forest, and cornered him halfway to the village, where no one else could hear. She’d still spoken barely more than a dozen words to any of the other islanders. Micah mattered. The others didn’t. ‘Why don’t you care about your family?’

‘I do care,’ he said, unperturbed, as if she hadn’t asked him the same thing half a dozen times in the last two weeks.

‘Then prove it! Ask me about them! I’ve met them. I’ve been Glimmer’s _prisoner_. I can tell you what she looks like, how she acts. I can tell you about her friends.’ Catra tried to make her voice teasing, the way Shadow Weaver always had: offering deeper secrets, if only one did as she asked. It made her fur stand on end to think of herself in Shadow Weaver’s place, but Micah was her ticket off the island. _Anything_ was worth it, if it convinced him to help. ‘Don’t you want to know?’

Micah’s eyes were a dark blur of dusk, but even so, she could tell he was studying her. ‘I will not speak to you of my family,’ he said at last, ‘so long as you see them as a pretext for violence.’

That was more than she’d gotten out of him before, but far less than she wanted. It was a relief, in some ways. She wasn’t Shadow Weaver after all. ‘What does that _mean_?’ This time, she couldn’t avoid the sob entirely. Paradoxically, she felt good—strong, healthy. Her muscles sang with the simple joy of regular labour. She hated it. She hated feeling content in this place—needed a way off the island, needed it _now_ , not whenever Micah finally agreed to help.

Micah stepped out from beneath a tree, and the harsh shadows of his face resolved into something softer when viewed by moonlight. ‘I want to hear everything you know,’ he whispered. ‘I want to hear about every last detail. But I will not ask, because you would only tell me in the hope it would incite me to revenge. Tell me freely, without ulterior motive, and I will listen. Until then—good night.’

Catra could not bear to watch him walk away again. ‘Wait!’ Micah stopped but did not turn. ‘Just tell me why—tell me _how_ you don’t hate Shadow Weaver like I do.’ She paused. ‘Please.’

‘That is not an easy question to answer.’

‘So, what, you won’t even _try_?’

He turned back towards Catra, and some of the tension finally drained from her body. ‘Very well,’ Micah said. ‘I can try.’ He said nothing for a few seconds, his mouth twisted in thought. Then: ‘Do you know why Shadow Weaver is so good at what she does? It is because she believes herself. She thinks she cares—because she _does_ care, in her own, twisted way. She cares the way a parasite cares about its host.’

He picked through his words carefully, as if putting words to feelings he’d known for years, and in that moment, when it became clear to her the answer was not simply there for him to serve up on a plate, Catra realised that some part of her had started to think of Micah as infallible, omniscient.

‘She knows that love is power. Think about everyone who has ever had power over you. And I don’t mean _physical_ power—I mean the people who you would heed simply because of who they were. How many of them did you love, or think you loved? How many loved you?’

Catra refused to give him the satisfaction of being right. ‘Get on with it.’

‘You see?’ Micah smiled slightly, as if to show her he knew he was right regardless. ‘She knows that love binds people to her, and she knows that when you are small and alone and desperate for any acknowledgement of your worth… Well. It is easy to forget that love is mutable, that it is not set in stone from the first moment of kindness and compassion. It evolves. It is reinforced, constantly. What Shadow Weaver does—that is false love. Its only purpose is to bind you to her, even through her neglect, her disregard, because you will always have the memory of her affection. It is not real. Do you know what real love is?’

‘I don’t need you to tell me about love.’ It was no use: her voice was unexpectedly weak, her hands trembling treacherously. She dug her claws into the opposite arm, felt their bite even through her fur. The trembling stopped.

Micah saw what she was doing and went on, relentless. ‘It is knowing that a person would do anything for you, simply because you asked. It is having that power over someone and _choosing not to use it_ , because you love them as they are, and not as your whims would have them become.’

‘But what—what if you do that, and then the person you love leaves you anyway?’ Very few people had ever seen Catra cry. She hated to add Micah to the list, but she hated even more the idea of being left without answers yet again.

Micah took a step forward, and another. She retreated half a step for each of his, and in due course he reached out and gently unhooked her hand from around her arm. ‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, ‘that’s simply how things go. Sometimes there’s no staying. Sometimes that’s best.’

‘Best for _her_!’ For once Catra’s anger failed her, and the words came out as a sob instead. ‘Not for me! Never for me.’

And Micah said, ‘Tell me?’, and Catra couldn’t say whether it was the dark or the moonlight or his hand, half-there on her elbow, that broke her last shred of stubbornness; she knew only that it was gone, and there was no reason not to tell him, no reason at all.

It was not the ideal place for such a conversation, but perhaps there _was_ no ideal place. The words flowed like dark blood into the night, turning her life inside out, pulling her past from the place she’d so carefully hidden it. Afterwards, Micah looked up into her eyes and said, ‘Thank you.’

Catra felt—she didn’t know how she felt. Tired, mostly. Wrung dry. She wanted to move on. ‘You still haven’t told me how.’ She could hear the weariness in her own voice. ‘How do you not hate Shadow Weaver?’

‘It is simple,’ Micah said. ‘And at the same time, it is the hardest thing I have ever done.’ He paused a moment more. ‘Do you know how to kill a parasite? Deprive it of the thing it feeds on. The only way to best Shadow Weaver is to leave. Leave her. Leave everything she controls. Fight to escape with every tool at your disposal and never return. The more you think about her, the more power you give her. So stop.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish I could tell you more. But you’ve accomplished the first part yourself, and I daresay that’s the hardest.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Catra said bitterly. ‘You have the people on this island. You have a family to go back to. Adora has—Adora has _everything._ I have _nothing_. All I want—’ She swallowed, hard, tried again. ‘All I have left is revenge.’

Micah laughed, and Catra found she had no energy even to resent him. ‘That is not true,’ he said. ‘That is never true.’ He tilted his head. ‘If you are serious about putting the past behind you—if you truly want to look forward—then meet me here again, tomorrow at midnight. There is something I must show you.’

*

The world, Scorpia thought, was much larger when viewed from her own two feet and not the helm of a Horde skiff. They left the Whispering Woods behind the day after the tree incident, the forest thinning as they climbed the foothills below Dryl. Scorpia grew increasingly nervous as the days passed and they descended back into the hinterlands around the edges of the Crimson Waste: she’d been plotting a careful path, threading the needle to stay on course while avoiding Horde territory proper—but she was running out of map. Beast Island was _in_ Horde territory. Sooner or later, they’d have to cut through it.

When she was starting to think they’d reach the coast without incident, Scorpia spotted the first patrol.

‘Get back,’ she hissed, motioning Adora off the path.

Adora’s head snapped up, scanning the horizon. ‘I don’t think they can hear us one way or the other,’ she said, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘Besides, we can take a single patrol.’

Scorpia kept her eyes on the two skiffs. They were headed the other direction, but distances could be deceptive and she wasn’t about to take any unnecessary risks. ‘Sure we can,’ she said. ‘But then someone gets a message off, or worse, gets away, and suddenly the whole Horde knows someone’s snooping about, and then they send in even _more_ patrols, and everyone’s on alert, and they triple the garrison on Beast Island, and _we never see Catra again!_ ’ Silence. Scorpia turned away from the patrol, impatient, and found Adora looking at her strangely. ‘What?’

‘You seem stressed.’

‘I’m not stressed! I’m just worried. About that patrol over there. _Some_ people don’t have magic swords.’

Adora made an exaggerated show of looking over her shoulder. ‘I can’t even see them anymore.’

It was true. A light haze of dust still clouded the horizon, but that was all. The skiffs were gone.

‘Okay,’ Scorpia said. ‘Fine. Let’s keep going—'

Something knocked her clean off her feet and the air right out of her lungs. Instincts kicked in and she rolled with it, getting clear of her attacker and struggling up to one knee, just in time to block another blow—ah. All that attention on the skiffs, and she’d forgotten to check if there was _another_ part to the patrol. A part like, say, two Horde combat bots.

They were old models, pre-Entrapta hardware, but plenty threatening enough, especially with the element of surprise. Scorpia jumped out of the way as the bot rushed forward again, side-wiping it as it passed and wincing at the sensation of her claw catching on metal. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Adora—holding her own, for now, but why didn’t she use the damn sword?

‘Use the sword!’ Scorpia yelled as her bot re-oriented itself. She darted forward, slower than she would have liked but fast enough to sweep one leg out from under the bot, sending it crashing to the ground.

‘I can’t,’ Adora called back. She sounded out of breath, but Scorpia did not spare a glance to see what was happening. ‘Knocked it away—must have identified it as a weapon—and this thing is _really_ annoying.’

Oh. That was surprisingly good reasoning, for a combat bot. Maybe Entrapta’s _software_ had made it out this far. And if it had—how regular would the updates be? She’d only been gone a few weeks… Scorpia frowned, a plan forming in her mind.

First she had a fight to win. Before her bot could right itself again, she leapt forwards and brought both claws down, full force. Metal crumpled beneath her and the bot’s legs spasmed as it powered down. She took a moment to appreciate the simplicity of fighting an opponent who couldn’t teleport, or summon water or plants or ice or _anything_ , and maybe fighting _with_ the Rebellion wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

Then she turned. The other bot had Adora on the ground, cornered against the rock formation it must have been hiding behind.

‘Stop!’ Scorpia yelled. ‘Emergency override, uh, delta nineteen, Force Captain Scorpia!’ Nothing happened at first, and she had a moment to curse Entrapta—before her arrival, the bots would have been so out of date that _Adora_ might have been able to override them, if she’d bothered to try—before it retracted its weapon, scurried back a few steps, and folded itself into a ready position. ‘Ha! I can’t believe that worked!’

Adora got up, dusted herself off, and retrieved her sword. ‘Thanks,’ she said, keeping one eye on the bot. ‘ _Why_ did it work?’

‘Entrapta put overrides into all the bots. You know, because they tend to, uh, go haywire when she messes with them too much. She must not have removed my code from the system yet.’

‘Or maybe she left it in deliberately.’

Scorpia hadn’t even considered that. The thought made her heart swell. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah! You’re right.’

‘Anyway. Guess that makes us even.’

‘What?’

‘You know, ‘cause I got you out off the tree?’ Adora laughed. ‘The machines listen to you and the plants listen to me. Between us we have the planet covered, huh?’

Scorpia beamed. ‘Sure do.’

‘Why’d you leave the Horde?’ Adora said suddenly.

‘I told you. I have to save Catra.’

‘No, I get that, but—’ Adora looked almost embarrassed. ‘I guess I was sort of thinking, I don’t know, you’d get her off Beast Island and then you’d both… go back. But now… You saved me. You dealt with those bots. You’re not planning on going back, are you?’

She wasn’t. Scorpia _knew_ she wasn’t, had known since she’d turned her back on the Fright Zone, but having Adora say it out loud—having someone who should have been her enemy trust her not to turn back—made it more real. ‘No. I’m not.’ It felt good, saying that, so she did it again. ‘I’m really not!’

‘Good for you. But—I’m sorry, I swear I’m not trying to interrogate you, I just… why _now_? The Horde is terrible! They do terrible things! _You’re_ not terrible. Why did it take so long?’

Scorpia held her arms up in mock defence. ‘Whoa! Give a girl some room, would you? I can’t even tell if you’re complimenting me or criticising me.’

‘No, I mean, it’s good that you…’ Adora sighed and turned away. ‘Never mind.’

_Oh_ , Scorpia thought. _Oh, I see_. She stepped forward, placed one claw carefully on Adora’s shoulder, firm enough not to startle enough, gentle enough to be comforting. ‘I’m not the person you really want to answer that question, am I?’

‘I was so naïve,’ Adora whispered. ‘I never knew there might be something _better_ than the Horde. And when I realised—’ She took a short, gasping breath, the kind that hid a sob inside it. ‘I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t see Catra suffer, every day, for _no reason_. You know? As long as I thought there was a point, that one day it would be worth it… but that was never true. _Never_. The only way was out and I kept—kept _waiting_ for her to realise that, too, but…’

‘It’s okay,’ Scorpia said in her best soothing voice, the one Catra had never appreciated. ‘We’re just two naïve peas in a pod, huh?’

Adora snorted. ‘Yeah?’

‘I always trusted that my people knew what they were doing when they chose to join the Horde. But maybe—’ Scorpia paused. ‘Well,’ she went on, too cheerfully, ‘let’s just say I couldn’t bear to see what they were doing to my best friend. Better late than never!’

‘I’m glad—I’m glad she had you looking out for her.’

‘Oh!’ Scorpia felt herself flushing. ‘You know, I mean—I say best friend, but really there was Entrapta too, there were three of us, and I think she never—I’m not sure _she_ would say it? And I guess, I mean, what I’m trying to say—’ She swallowed, hard, and went on at a more measured pace. ‘What I’m trying to say is, she never stopped wishing it was you. I could tell. She pretended she didn’t care, but…’

‘That does sound like Catra.’

‘Yeah, uh, it does.’ Scorpia shot Adora a furtive look. The other girl was going red, too. That made her feel better. It was nice talking to someone who acknowledged her own emotions once in a while. Still—there was only so much of this strange, awkward tension she could take. She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway! I had an idea. Help me get the panel on this bot open.’

Adora stumbled as Scorpia stepped past her, as if thrown off-balance by the sudden change of topic. ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Scorpia said, already straining at the barely visible seam on the bot’s underside, ‘Entrapta showed me how to get to the control interface, and—aha!’ Adora had wedged her sword in the gap and levered the panel open. Underneath, plugged into the bot’s innards, was a simple tablet interface.

‘Wait,’ Adora said, frowning. ‘Is that…?’

Scorpia pulled the tablet out. ‘Sorry, little guy,’ she muttered as the bot made a low whining noise, the light on its optical receptor blinking off. ‘Yep! It’s the same hardware as the normal Horde tablets, and if the bot recognised my override, then…’ She cursed under her breath as she worked the tiny, not-suitable-for-scorpion-claws controls. ‘Yes! I’m logged in. I’ve got tracker functions—ha! No more surprise patrols now! All we have to do is keep an eye on this, and—’

‘And what?’

Scorpia didn’t answer. Her claw had slipped, zooming the map out to a wider view—and there, on the crescent silhouette of Beast Island, was a single flashing point of red. The Horde identified its soldiers by numbers, not names, but Scorpia had made a point of memorising Catra’s identification number a long time ago. Here, finally, was proof that they were on the right track. The fear she’d been too stubborn to acknowledge—the fear that she’d been leading them both on a pointless mission—shrivelled up and died. A tendril of hope curled around her heart in its place.

She flipped the screen around. It took Adora mere seconds to come to the same realisation.

‘All right,’ Adora said. ‘Let’s go get her.’

*

The moons were full, rendering midnight in soft grey shadows. The trees swayed around Catra like the breath of a gently sleeping thing, and she found she did not mind that Micah was a few minutes late.

She had not told him, explicitly, that she would come. That had been a convenient device by which to pretend she might yet change her mind, but in truth both of them had known she’d be there. Micah had proven he knew Shadow Weaver better than anyone Catra had ever met, save perhaps herself. He had earned the right to attempt to convince her away from the path she’d set herself.

Catra waited perhaps ten minutes. Micah made no secret of his arrival: he strolled down the path like he was out for a morning walk, a dark grey cloak settled on his shoulders and a walking stick in his right hand.

‘What, are we climbing a mountain?’ Catra said by way of greeting, eyeing the stick. ‘You forgot to mention that.’

Micah grinned at her. ‘I am an old man,’ he said. ‘I take help where I can get it. You are young! You will be fine.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Catra rolled her eyes, so he’d know how seriously she was taking him. ‘Well? Where are we going, then?’

‘This way!’ Micah declared. He pivoted ninety degrees, gestured with his stick, and set out perpendicular to the path, into the depths of the forest.

Catra watched him crash through the undergrowth for a good ten seconds before she followed. She hadn’t been expecting much in particular—if a hike through the jungle was what Micah had in mind, she was willing to humour him.

Two hours later, she was less willing to humour him. ‘Are you _sure_ ,’ she said, slapping at an insect on her arm—normally her fur protected her from bugs, but they were so _big_ here—‘you know where you’re going?’

‘Quite!’ Micah said. They’d stopped for a minute by a stream. Micah was squatting beside it, noisily slaking his thirst. ‘You should drink something. We’ve an hour or so to go.’

‘I’m fine.’

He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Onwards!’

At least the going was easier after that: the trees thinned, leaving wider gaps between their treacherous roots, and the undergrowth was less developed, too, as if the forest had come to some agreement with the bare ground. Occasionally they passed a place that was almost like a clearing.

‘These are the outskirts,’ Micah said. ‘Or they were, anyway.’

‘The outskirts of _what_?’

‘You’ll see.’

Catra groaned. ‘I swear I’m going to turn around if you don’t—’

‘Five more minutes, Catra. Ten at most. Be patient.’

Catra bit her tongue. She would turn back in ten minutes, she decided. Enough was enough.

Five minutes later, they found the ruin.

‘This? This is what you took me halfway across the island to see?’ It had been impressive, once, that was clear enough: even ruined, the building—castle? palace?—rose slightly above the surrounding treetops. But it was old, scarred. She could see where some Horde weapon had blown holes in the structure. The rubble of the upper storeys lay strewn across the clearing, overgrown now with ivy and wildflowers. The stone shone faintly in the moonlight.

‘The wall on the far side is intact,’ Micah said. ‘There is a carving there. Very old—a thousand years at least. I suggest you take a look.’

Catra shot him a scathing look. She was tempted to refuse, but then this whole field trip would be an even greater waste of six hours. ‘Fine.’

The building’s footprint was larger than she expected. The war damage made it seem smaller, she decided. She picked her way through the debris to the far side. The wall there faced two of the moons, and she could see the carving quite clearly. It was—nothing. A procession of figures. Thrones. A Princess receiving tribute. Nothing she hadn’t seen in half a dozen other minor kingdoms the Horde had toppled. ‘Great,’ she spat, ears flattening in irritation. ‘You took me all the way out here for a fucking _history lesson_? Why would I care about some old kingdom?’

Micah stepped up next to her. He gestured with his stick. ‘Look closer,’ he said quietly.

Catra reined impatience in and did as he asked. Another figure, another throne, and—

Hair went up all over her body. She found herself wishing she’d had a drink after all, because her throat was dry, and her tail lashed in agitation, and _that was the thing_ : they had tails. Every figure in the carving looked like her—ears, tail, in one case a hand raised with claws unsheathed. She hadn’t seen it at first because the stone was worn, but now more and more details leapt out at her: the stripes in their fur, the silhouettes of figures perched with inhuman balance, the—the mask, _her_ mask, carved in sharp grey upon the brow of a woman seated on a throne. That was too much. It was like looking at a mirror and seeing a reflection that was not yours. She jumped back with a cry, claws unsheathed, hissing, and when Micah looked at her, concern spreading across her face, she snapped, ‘ _What is this place_?’

For once he did not dissemble. ‘Before the Horde, the magicats ruled this part of the world. This was their capital.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Only the palace was stone. Only it survived. The rest of the city was built of wood, threaded through the trees. It’s all gone. The Horde burnt it when they invaded. It’s all gone, but… This is your land, Catra. These were your people. No one has a greater right to be here.’

Catra laughed. ‘ _This_? _This_ is what you thought would make me feel _better_? The _ruined remains_ of a people I never even _knew_? You’re insane, old man. Actually—you know, maybe you were right! Maybe this is what I needed. A reminder that everything in my life is _dead_. I guess I’ll just—’

‘Not dead,’ Micah said. His voice, implacably quiet, rolled across Catra’s like the tide. ‘The magicats were wise rulers. They fought the Horde tooth and claw, and when they saw the fight was lost, they fled. By the time the Horde razed this city, there was no one left in it.’ He met her gaze, steady and serene. ‘This is not a tomb, Catra. It is a signpost. Your legacy is out there, somewhere. The magicats are out there.’ He tilted his head. ‘And they will be looking for a princess.’

Bile rose in Catra’s throat. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘A fucking _Princess_. That’s why you brought me here? Because no one has any worth in this world unless they’re born to a fucking crown? That’s the Rebellion’s way, huh? Thanks, but I want no part of—’

Micah’s sudden, booming laughter cut her off. ‘ _Ha!_ Rebellion? You think the magicats were part of the Princess Alliance? You think that you’re’—he wiped tears of laughter on his cloak—‘some kind of lost princess? Very self-centred, don’t you think?’

‘What?’ Catra was too off-kilter to snap at him again. ‘But you said—’

‘Yes, I said, and you leapt to conclusions. Listen. The magicats were the counterweight that kept Etheria in check. Magicats on one side, the kingdoms of the Princesses on the other.’

Catra let that sink in. ‘They were… enemies?’

‘Sometimes. And sometimes allies. Things change, over a thousand years. This carving, here, depicts the wedding procession of the first magicat queen. She married a Princess. A century later they were both dead and their descendants at each other’s throats.’ Micah shrugged. ‘That’s history. But whatever state of affairs existed between the two, Etheria was always in balance. Neither dominated the other. Not like the Horde wishes to do.’

‘And what did you mean,’ Catra said, ‘that they would be looking for a princess?’

Micah smiled knowingly. ‘The magicats are always looking for a princess. It is not a hereditary title to them. Instead, they select their princess on merit. Every year there is a great contest, and the winner is heir to the kingdom until the next contest.’

Catra’s heart beat a little faster. That was a language she spoke: a language of skill and ambition and victory.

‘I brought you here because there is one more thing you can do to defeat Shadow Weaver.’

Catra tore her gaze away from the mute stone magicats. ‘What?’

‘Shadow Weaver instils a need for validation in her proteges. A need to be loved. To be respected. You understand, don’t you? You’ve felt it. Even your anger is driven by the need to prove yourself, to prove, to _her_ , that you are better than her. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’ It came out as a whisper.

‘Those needs are not inherently bad. But she twists them. Controls them. Makes you yearn for _her_ love, her respect. To truly break her hold on you—’ Micah smiled. ‘You must find people who love you. People who respect you. People who see your worth, not because they want to exploit you, but because you _are_ worthy, of respect and love and everything else that’s good in this world.’

‘I don’t—I don’t know if…’ Catra closed her eyes. What didn’t she know? Her thoughts were slow, sodden things. Moonlight pierced her eyelids, and for a moment she fancied she could see the ghosts of magicats past, thronging the square in front of their palace, laughing and crying and _living_ —

She gasped out a sob. ‘I don’t _know_.’

Micah nodded. ‘I can do no more. I will be over there, by the tree line. Take your time. Look around. Think things through. When you are ready, I will take you back to the village, and if you wish it, we can speak of what comes next.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. I admit. I probably can't finish by Tuesday.
> 
> BUT we are getting there! I think there will only be one or two more chapters, depending on how I decide to split things up. let me know what you thought! after stalling on this fic for a little while, I'm really getting back into it, and even though it's a little rushed I hope you like it all the same <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra stages two (2) prison breaks.

In the pre-dawn light, Catra paid Cyril a visit.

He was awake. His husband was not. A relic, perhaps, of the days when he was a Horde officer.

‘You want to know how he could ever forgive me,’ Cyril said quietly.

Catra bared her teeth. She wanted to turn around and leave. She wanted to assert that no stranger, no islander, no _villager_ had anything of use to tell her. That was why she’d made a point of not speaking to any of the others, after all.

But this was a question no one else on the island—not even Micah—could answer.

‘One day I made a choice,’ he said. ‘Not a huge one, but a right one. A good choice. The next day I made another. A week later, another.’ He cocked his head. ‘I had my mis-steps. I still do. But it is easier than you expect, once you make that first choice. You become someone who makes good choices. That’s the key, I think. The Horde beats you down. It makes you think you are good only because the Horde has use for you. It took me a long time to discover that I could be good because I chose to be. That path had never been closed. I’d just been blind to it. And then, one day’—a small smile—‘one day, Kelik saw the choices I’d made along that path, and he made a choice, too.’

Catra nodded, once. Her tail wrapped itself around her leg and she tried to think of something, anything to say.

Cyril saved her the effort. ‘I hope that helps,’ he said, and then he retreated back into the hut he shared with someone who should have hated him but, miraculously, did not.

It was still dark. Catra felt, for the first time in years, that anything was possible, and she felt, too, that the gates of possibility would slam shut under the brighter light of day.

But it was still dark. She left to find Micah and make her choice.

*

It all fell apart less than half a day from Beast Island, when Scorpia woke in the middle of the night to find Horde soldiers in their camp and Adora already bound and struggling.

She fought, of course, but there were a dozen of them and one of her, and eventually she, too, was trussed up and marched awkwardly through the trees. She wanted to scream with frustration when the outpost came into view. It was exactly what they needed—lightly fortified, lightly garrisoned, a pair of boats bobbing in the surf. Boats that they would be hard pressed to steal from a holding cell.

They had come so _close_.

Scorpia recognised the officer in charge—would have recognised the twisted delight in her voice even blindfolded.

‘Next time,’ Octavia said, ‘deactivate the bot _before_ you have your little heart-to-heart.’

*

‘I need your help.’

Catra had thought long and hard about how to approach this moment. She’d spent weeks chasing Micah’s help. She’d implied, insinuated, extorted—anything to get him to offer his aid.

She had never simply asked.

Micah had his hands tucked into his sleeves—they were on the beach, and a wind was blowing in across the water. He looked inscrutable as always, but behind him the faint glow of the Horde outpost on the mainland spurred Catra on. Inscrutable, yes—but she thought she knew him, now. Knew him well enough.

‘How can I help?’

The sharp edges of the Force Captain badge dug unpleasantly into her palm. It was the last power she had in this place: so long as no one knew she had it, it could not be taken from her.

‘I need to get off this island. Tonight. Now.’

‘If I could help, I would.’

The wind blew harder. Catra’s grip tightened. She opened her hand, palm up.

Micah frowned. ‘What’s—’

‘This is the stuff that’s mined on Beast Island. Pure. You said—you said it was powerful.’

Catra felt a moment of doubt—who was to say that he’d been telling the truth?—but then Micah’s expression shifted, confusion changed to something sharper, more calculating. ‘It is.’

‘I need you,’ Catra said, speaking slowly, ‘to do your—your magic, and get these shackles off me.’

She was prepared for him to say no. She was prepared for him to tell her that wasn’t how magic worked. She was prepared for anything, and it still it surprised her when he said, ‘All right. I can do that.’

‘You can?’

‘Yes. Give me the badge.’

The world twisted. It was too easy, too fast. Catra was in the Fright Zone again, the forcefield humming behind her. She was in charge. The woman in the cell could do nothing to her. _She was in charge_. ‘How do I know—’ Her hands were trembling. Catra balled them up. Now her fists were trembling. ‘How do I know you won’t…’

‘Listen to me.’ Micah’s voice cut through the memories. He sounded nothing like Shadow Weaver. That was good, wasn’t it? That meant something? ‘You _don’t_ know. You have to trust me.’

‘That’s just it!’ Catra felt exposed on the beach. Her instincts screamed at her to scramble back into the jungle and hide in the treetops, but her shackles were too heavy. Her tail made do, kicking up sand in agitation. ‘How can I trust—?’

There’d been more to that sentence in her head. Now that it was spoken it felt complete as it was.

‘ _How_ is the wrong question. Everyone trusts someone. We can’t help ourselves. Even if we bury that instinct deep inside. _Especially_ then, because then it comes out when we least expect it, when we’re vulnerable and uncertain. We need trust, Catra, we need it like we need love. Pretending otherwise only robs us of control. Misdirects it.’ Micah scooped up handfuls of sand and raised them, as if weighing the one against the other. ‘ _Who_ is the question. _Who_ can we trust. Right or wrong, you must own the decision. Don’t hide from it. It’s the only way.’

She could almost see the cell still, out of the corner of eye, as if turning her head would reveal a different person making a different speech. ‘You’re not her,’ she said, but the words were hesitant, unsure.

‘That’s not for me to say.’

‘But you’re _not_ ,’ Catra repeated, louder. ‘She would have pushed harder. She would have told me why I could trust her, told me what I _wanted_ to hear, and I’d think the decision was mine, but you, you’re—’ Catra convulsed with a sob so sudden it made her throat ache. ‘You’re leaving it up to me.’

Micah’s face lit up and for the first time, Catra could imagine him among the spires of Bright Moon, laughing with his family, like—like—

Catra blinked to dispel the image of Adora happy and free and safe without her. _One wound at a time._

‘You’re not her, either,’ Micah said.

Sand glittered in his outstretched hands. Catra reached for one of them and gently splayed his fingers, watching the grains fall between them like an hourglass. When her hand withdrew it left the Force Captain badge behind.

‘There. That’s my choice.’

Micah’s fingers closed around the badge. Catra tensed, waiting for—something, anything, whatever magic he had planned.

Instead he leaned forward and pulled her into an embrace. ‘I’m proud of you.’

There was no escaping the tears this time. Catra had heard the words before, from Adora, from Shadow Weaver, from Scorpia—but even when sincerely given, they had never struck home. She’d never known what was missing. She’d seen the praise heaped on Adora and thought _that_ was what she wanted, the empty words from their instructors, their squadmates, their leaders.

But they never had been empty, not to Adora, because a true compliment merely echoed something you already knew. Micah’s words resonated through her, harmonised with the sobs wracking her body, not because they were true but because she was proud of herself, too. It was strange to feel pride in something so small as trusting herself to make a decision, but Catra had little enough to be proud of, and it was a start. It was enough.

She had grown used to the weight of her shackles. When they feel away, her body felt lighter than it had ever been, so light she could float away, so light she could do anything.

The badge had dissolved in Micah’s hand, replaced by a faint blue glow that still hung in the air where he’d worked his magic. ‘There’s plenty left,’ he murmured. ‘I’m going to put a spell of warmth on you, to make the crossing easier.’

‘No,’ Catra said, and she felt more sure of herself than she had in years. ‘Use it to free yourself. Come with me.’

Micah smiled. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Of course you can! You’ll do more good out there than here.’

‘Maybe so. But I can’t do that. I will not leave my people.’

‘Even if leaving could free them?’

‘Even then. I’m sorry, Catra. I truly am. I wish I could come with you. But sometimes it is right for one person to leave, and another to stay.’

The words hit Catra like a blow to the kidneys. She opened her mouth and found she had no answer to them. Micah smiled again, a little sadly, and opened his hand. Patterns traced themselves in the air in front of him, and when he was done, the whole weave flowed over Catra’s skin like water. Instantly she felt warmer, as if her fur had doubled or tripled in thickness.

‘There,’ he said. ‘It is done. There is no magic left.’

Tears formed in Catra’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I have to—I have to leave. I can’t stay here.’

‘I know. I do not blame you. To the contrary: I admire you.’

There was one more thing she had to say. ‘Thank you. Micah. Thank you.’ Despite the spell of warmth, Catra hugged herself. It was harder than she expected, saying those simple words. ‘If there’s anything—’

For the first time, Micah looked uncertain. ‘I would ask two things of you, if I may.’

‘What?’

‘If you see my daughter again—tell her I live.’

‘Yes. I can do that.’

‘And—one day—if you find your people. If you find your place.’ Micah took a deep breath. ‘Come back for us.’

Catra unfolded herself. She looked Micah in the eye. Offered her hand. ‘I will.’

They shook hands. Catra turned away, waves lapping at her ankles. She could barely feel the cold. She forged deeper into the surf, but when the water reached up to her waist, she stopped. ‘Micah?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve only ever known her as my enemy, but Glimmer is the most stubborn, resourceful, ambitious, _annoying_ woman I know. Not counting myself.’ She paused. ‘And as much as it pains me to admit, she’s a good person. A good friend. She’s been—’ Catra screwed her eyes shut and forced the truth out. ‘She’s been good for Adora. You’d be proud.’

Before Micah could reply, Catra filled her lungs, dove into the sea, and left Beast Island behind.

*

How to describe the swim to the shore?

Catra hated water. She hated Beast Island, and she hated the Horde, and she hated that her only choice was to make for the Horde outpost anyway, to skulk and steal until she could survive in the wilderness. She hated that she did not know precisely where she would go next.

All of that was true, and none of it changed the fact that fleeing Beast Island was the greatest hour of her life. The envelope of warmth clinging to her skin turned the water friendly. She moved across it easily, lightly, like an airship on the breeze. Waves washed over her with every stroke, sloughing the hardened layers of her away until what remained was fresh and raw, vulnerable but healthy.

It felt like something new.

And when she emerged from the water, dripping, and shook herself off—when she found the Horde outpost aswarm with activity, and none of it pointed in her direction—when she crept up on the officers’ quarters, and saw something old within?

Mere days ago, she might have fled, might have left the prisoners where they were and counted herself lucky not to join them.

But there was something new within her, and it was not afraid of the past.

*

Catra came up on the first guard from behind, the surprise of her hand over his mouth enough to allow her to draw his stun baton from his belt and send him twitching to the ground. The second turned, mouth open in alarm, and got a baton to the neck for her trouble.

That was the easy part.

Force Captain Octavia was waiting for her in her office.

Well—that was a poor way of putting it. Octavia had no idea she was coming, of course, but that was how it felt. Of _course_ , Catra thought, of course Adora had somehow got it into her head to rescue her, and of course she’d lost her sword in the process.

She didn’t bother with finesse. The door to Octavia’s office slammed open; Octavia herself was standing behind her desk, staring at Catra in horror. There were two things within arm’s reach that might have saved her: Adora’s sword, propped up in the corner, right where Catra had seen it through the window; or the remote on her desk that controlled the prisoners’ ankle bracelets. She went for the remote.

Catra was halfway through her swing by the time Octavia realised the remote wasn’t working. She stumbled backwards, but there wasn’t enough room behind her to avoid the blow entirely. The baton caught her on the wrist and she slumped across the desk, muscles spasming, mouth trapped in an expression of perfect hatred.

Catra knew from personal experience that the stun baton did not impair hearing. She searched herself for the desire to say something, to gloat, to rub Octavia’s face in her escape. Nothing came except relief: relief that she had not stayed with the Horde long enough to become this bitter woman, watching distant prisoners from a tiny, prefab office.

Octavia’s keys got her into the holding cell corridor. She took a moment to steady herself, then strode out in plain view of the cells, Adora’s sword slung casually across her shoulder.

‘Hey, Adora,’ she drawled. ‘You really gotta stop losing this thing.’

Catra had a brief few seconds in which to appreciate Adora’s perfect look of surprise. Then she looked to the cell’s other occupant and nearly dropped the sword.

‘Catra, hey!’ Scorpia said, much too loudly for a prison break. ‘We’re here to rescue you!’

*

Later, when the adrenaline of escape had faded and the exhaustion caught up, they made camp in silence. It made for a strange sight, as if spending so much time as _two_ had made Scorpia forget how to act as _three_. They formed a tense triangle: Catra, nibbling at a handful of nuts Scorpia had scrounged for her, blanket discarded by her side; Adora, sword across her knees, neither looking nor not looking at Catra; and Scorpia, caught between and among them.

The tension broke when Adora cleared her throat, got up, and said, ‘I’ll go get some wood. It’s cold out here.’

‘I can do that—’ Scorpia’s words died on her tongue.

Adora hoisted her sword and shrugged. ‘I got it.’

Catra watched them and said nothing.

What did you say to someone who’d spent weeks in the worst prison in the world? How could you possibly hope to cheer them up, raise their spirits? Catra had been in a bad place to begin with, Scorpia thought, and surely Beast Island had done nothing to improve her situation—

‘Thank you,’ Catra said.

Scorpia’s line of thought cartwheeled off the cliff that was Catra _thanking her_. ‘Huh?’

‘For coming back for me. You went to Adora, right? Convinced her to help.’

‘Well, yes, but, I mean, all we really did is get ourselves captured, you managed the rescuing on your own…’

Catra shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. You could have left me. Adora _definitely_ could have left me. You—’ Her voice faltered. ‘You gave up your life in the Horde for me. You realise that, right?’

‘Of course I realise that,’ Scorpia said, affronted.

‘That’s more than I was willing to do.’

Scorpia hadn’t the slightest clue how to respond to that. ‘You’re—different,’ she said instead.

Catra snorted. ‘Yeah. Beast Island definitely changes you, I’ll give it that.’ Another moment of tense silence, and then she said, ‘Listen. I was a terrible friend. And I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t in a position to be a good friend back.’

‘Forgiven,’ Scorpia said softly. ‘I was maybe—I came on a bit strong, too. I thought I could fix you.’

‘Forgiven,’ Catra said back, and smiled. ‘I mean it, you know. Thank you. I didn’t deserve you.’

_Didn’t_. Scorpia felt a burst of pride. ‘You’re welcome, wildcat.’

‘But I need to—’ Catra gazed past Scorpia, into the trees where Adora had disappeared. ‘You _are_ my friend, I swear, but…’ She shrugged helplessly.

Once upon a time, Scorpia had thought she could replace Adora. First she’d been angry, that anyone could leave Catra like Adora had; then jealous, when it became clear Catra still wanted her _real_ best friend back.

Those weren’t worthy ways of thinking about friendship. Adora was not her enemy, or her opponent, or rival. That much was obvious to her now. The losing and gaining of friends was a painful thing: it was not a simple exchange, the one making up for the other. She never could have replaced Adora, and Adora never could have been the friend she’d been to Catra.

‘Go,’ Scorpia said. ‘Find her. Talk to her. Right now, we’re all on the same side.’ She grinned. ‘Your side.’

Scorpia only had a brief glimpse of the relief on Catra’s face before she closed the gap between them and pulled Scorpia into an embrace. It was, Scorpia thought, the first time Catra had ever initiated a hug.

‘Thank you,’ Catra whispered. ‘Thank you.’

*

It didn’t take long for Catra to find Adora. Her footprints were clear in the damp ground, and she’d only gone as far as necessary to put herself out of earshot.

Catra stopped ten paces away. This was a conversation she had studiously not been imagining for months. She cleared her throat.

Adora looked up. She was sitting against a tree, idly tracing patterns in the ground with her sword. She’d made it smaller for the occasion, more knife than broadsword. There was no firewood in sight. ‘Hey, Catra.’

‘Glimmer’s father is alive,’ Catra blurted.

‘ _What?_ How?’

‘I don’t know exactly. One of Shadow Weaver’s tricks, I guess. He’s on Beast Island—he helped me escape—’ Catra tripped over her words. ‘I thought you should know.’

Adora picked at a stone with her sword-knife. ‘And if I asked you to come back to Bright Moon with me? Give Glimmer the good news yourself?’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘You can! This changes everything! If Micah is alive, I _know_ Angella would forgive you—’

‘I won’t do that,’ Catra amended. ‘I have… There are things I need to do. Important things.’

‘And after?’

‘After is after.’

Adora sighed. ‘That’s it, then? You’re leaving.’

‘You were expecting something else?’

‘I thought—I thought maybe you’d… you’d see I was right. About the Horde.’

‘I never said you weren’t.’

‘But then—’ Adora visibly restrained herself from re-treading old ground. ‘What do you want from me, Catra?’

‘How about an apology?’

‘What? What have I got to apologise for?’

Catra laughed. ‘Good start.’

‘Catra, if you’re just going to be difficult—’

‘I’m not going to be difficult. I’m going to be me.’

The confusion on Adora’s face made it plain she’d expected a different response. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ The old Adora, the Adora _before_ , would have made it a challenge; the new Adora said it hesitantly, as if feeling out new-old ground.

‘Exactly.’

‘Look, can you—can you sit down? You’re making me nervous.’

Micah’s spell was still active. The ground was perfectly warm beneath her, even as goosebumps pebbled Adora’s skin. ‘I’ll go first, if you like,’ Catra said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘Would you like an itemised list?’

Adora met her gaze defiantly. ‘Who says I haven’t already got one?’

That, Catra reflected, was alarmingly plausible. ‘Well, I am. And I hope the fact you’re here means you might believe me.’

Adora tilted her head. She set her sword down and inched closer, until she could lay one hand beside, but not on, Catra’s knee. ‘I left because I couldn’t bear to watch what the Horde was doing to you. Not when I knew there was an alternative.’

‘You never told me that.’ It came out as a whisper.

Adora flinched. ‘I know. I’m telling you now. I’m sorry’—and she laughed, as if surprised to find those words on her tongue—‘I’m sorry I made you feel unworthy. I _never_ thought that. Ever. I wanted you to come with me as an equal.’

‘I believe you.’ Catra’s tail wrapped around her leg, brushing Adora’s hand by her knee. ‘But I don’t—I don’t think it would have been possible, then.’

‘And now?’

‘Now? That depends. On—well. You came back for me.’

‘Yeah. I did.’

‘When I was—when Micah was helping me leave. I asked him to come with me. And he said he couldn’t. And—’ Catra’s ears flattened. ‘And I left anyway, because I _couldn’t_ stay on that island. I left anyway. And I’m saying—I understand. Do you see? I understand, and he said—he said I could make it up to him if I came back for him, and… and you came back for _me_ , so I need to know…’

‘I forgive you.’

Catra’s head jerked up. ‘Look, Adora, you don’t need to say that. I’m not stupid. I know I’ve done some unforgiveable things—’

‘No. No, _listen_ to me. You hurt me, and you hurt my friends, and that’s not going to go away. It’s going to take a long time before I can look at you and not feel angry—’

‘Wow, thanks, this is _exactly_ the kind of forgiveness I was hoping for—’

‘ _Shut up_ and listen. I’m not denying you did bad things to me. I’m not going to _forget_. But I know you, Catra. I know you so well. There’s going to come a time when you’re alone, somewhere out there in the world. That’s when you’re going to think about coming back to me. But you’ll wonder, can she really forgive me? Am I worth it? Do I really want to risk going back? And I don’t want you to think, not for one second, that the answer is “no”. And that’s why I’m telling you, now, that I forgive you. Unconditionally. I took a risk going with Scorpia. I was betting that something had changed for you, and I think I was right. I want to keep you in my life, Catra. The real you. _This_ you. Not the twisted version of herself Shadow Weaver wanted you to be. Because _I know you_. I know what you’re capable of left to your own devices, and it’s not hatred, it’s love. Your love kept me sane, Catra, for so long, and it came from _you_. No one else in the Horde could have taught us how to love, but we did it anyway. Do you understand? You taught me I didn’t have to be alone. You supported me, unconditionally, my entire life. Now it’s my turn. I might be angry. I might be hurting. I might even have hated you, for a little while. But I forgive you. And that’s the truth.’

‘ _Fuck_ , Adora. I mean—fuck! How the fuck am I supposed to respond to _that_?’

Adora reached for her, so very gently, but her hand stopped just shy of Catra’s face. ‘Honestly,’ she breathed.

‘Honestly?’ Catra barked out a laugh. ‘Sure. Honestly—I don’t know that I’m ready to be… with you again. To be your friend, or—anything else. I feel… I feel like I’m too rough, still, like being with someone else would scrape them bloody. I need to build myself up. On my own. _But_ ’—her tail flicked at Adora’s arm—‘but after? After is after.’

‘Then,’ Adora said, ‘I’ll meet you after?’

Catra found herself on the verge of tears. She had had so little when she left Beast Island, and it had been enough; and now she had so much more. Adora understood. Perhaps her claim of forgiveness was premature; perhaps she underestimated how long the path to that _after_ might yet be. But Adora would be there, waiting for her, when Catra was ready to set out and meet her.

‘After,’ she agreed, and finally, finally, Adora reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.

*

Catra did not much like being touched.

Prickly trial and error had taught her to accept Scorpia's embraces, that even if they did not make her feel better, they stopped her feeling worse. Later, Micah's gentle strength had helped scab the wound of Shadow Weaver's betrayal. She was learning. Even now, with Scorpia, it was different. A more mutual exchange than she’d thought herself capable of.

Those experiences had filled her out. They’d stretched her denials until they snapped and she was left nursing the sting of fresh, healthy trust. They had been good for her.

But they had not filled the empty space in her life; had not replaced the name half-present on her lips, the face half-expected around every corner.

‘No,’ she croaked as Adora’s hands withdrew, uncertain at her stillness. ‘I need you to—’

She could not quite say it as she’d never been able to, didn’t need to as she’d never needed to. Adora, always, understood. She was there when Catra let herself topple over, knowing the fall would be broken; she was there when the first tears appeared, shy and wet on her sleeve.

It was not painless. Her abdomen ached with the force of her sobs. Salt stung the scrapes on her cheeks. But as Adora's arms encircled her, as her hands resumed their patrol of Catra's hair, gentle and patient as ever they had been—it was as if the emotion bursting forth wasn’t leaving her at all but filling her, as if her tears fell upon that dry, cracked, empty spot inside her and ran soothing rivulets through her pain.

It was not enough: would not be enough, not for long years. But, as with everything else, it was a start. That was the reality of Catra’s new life—half a dozen starts and not an end between them.

‘You're all right,’ Adora murmured, not for the first time, and Catra breathed one perfect breath among the tension like a signpost showing her the way. ‘You're all right.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, I did it!
> 
> I'll be the first to admit the ending to this fic is pretty rushed. I think this is the least edited thing I've ever put out, and that's saying something. but I think if I hadn't finished it now, I never would have, and I'm still happy with Catra's arc overall! I hope y'all enjoyed it as well. thanks, as ever, for your kudos and comments, and hopefully season 4 treats us all well tomorrow.
> 
> until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought! I appreciate each and every kudos, each and every comment, no matter how short <3


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